


Obey Me! Reader-Insert Requests

by InvertedPhantasmagoria



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Broken Bones, Caretaking, Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demons, Domestication, Exhaustion, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Master/Pet, Mild Blood, Multi, Non-Sexual Slavery, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Cuddling, Psychological Trauma, Reader-Insert, Scars, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Trust Issues, Verbal Humiliation, Wing Kink, mild xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvertedPhantasmagoria/pseuds/InvertedPhantasmagoria
Summary: Because I have no self-control, here we go again >.> This is a fic for all kinds of requests (and a couple of my own ideas) featuring some truly lovely demon boys~ To anyone who's familiar with my work; this is exactly what you think it is. To anyone new; I'm drawn to fictional misery like a moth to a bug zapper, so expect things to getmean. This collection will contain fluff, smut, angst, and more... but probably pretty strong in the "angst" territory. Plenty of Au stuff to choose from too~
Relationships: Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Beelzebub/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Belphegor/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Diavolo/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Leviathan/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Mammon/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Satan/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 166
Kudos: 945





	1. Rules and Info

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm at it again with another probably-inadvisable request-based fic series! :D I'm also very, very manic while writing this, so please try to look past how excitable I am at the moment. I haven't slept properly in close to a week, which is thanks largely in part to this game >.>
> 
> The center of things here is Aus! Aka my _specialty_. OwO I'll, of course, happily take requests for canon too, but the Aus are going to be a large part of the fun! I tried my best to come up with some really mean ones (and reuse some of the good ones from my other fandom adventures), so I hope everyone enjoys! Requests will probably never be closed here, but I might be kinda picky with what I write, solely because I'm drowning in work already and this whole fic is one big impulse move. 
> 
> This chapter exists solely to explain everything. I have my list of rules and info on all of the Aus, which is pretty in-depth because I don't have a blog to explain this stuff on this time.... which feels sort of weird tbh. I'm looking forward to requests from everyone, so please don't hesitate to comment with your ideas! :D
> 
> My final note is that, for more of my content, check out my Diabolik Lovers blog, which will be listed below. It's sort of similar to this series, so I feel like it's a good connecting point :3
> 
> dixbolik-lovers.tumblr.com

**RULES:**

-I’m new in the fandom, so please forgive any mistakes. I’ll learn quick, but it might take me a bit to get the hang of new characters. 

-Aus exist solely for fun. Canon requests are more than welcome! Just please do specify if you want your request to be for the canon boys or for one of the Aus. 

-No character hate. You can dislike whoever you want, but here isn’t the place to put someone else’s fav down. Be considerate of others’ opinions and keep in your lane if you don’t agree. 

-No incest. At all. None. Brotherly love is fine, but please don’t go any farther than that. I’m used to the Diabolik Lovers fandom, so I’m kind of obligated to say this... That said, poly ships are more than welcome! Have the whole harem if you wanna~

-I am generally open about dark and nsfw themes. The only trigger that needs to be mentioned here is pregnancy/infants/small children, so other than that, I'm open to pretty much everything. I may refuse anything that makes me uncomfortable, though. I loooove the dark stuff~ Feed me your meanest ideas OwO

-I’m a total dom, so I do have quite a bit of bias when it comes to the boys. I tend to write them as more submissive/bottom-ish simply because that’s what makes me happy. I can do otherwise just fine, but I’m better at it that way. 

-Reader-insert only. No canon/canon ships allowed. OC-insert is _kind of_ acceptable, but only in the sense that you can give suggestions for Reader’s personality/mannerisms.

-For the moment, I’m only writing for the brothers. There’s no real reason for this beyond me just not feeling that strongly for the other characters yet. If that changes, this will be updated, but for now, please stick to the main seven boys. 

-Please, hit me with the worst ideas your minds can think of. Like, please. I thrive off of misery and pain, so the meaner we can get, the better. I made most of my Aus with the full intention of torturing everyone through them, so come get y’all’s sadist fix, please~ Tortures both nsfw, angsty, and just plain mean are all deeply encouraged. 

-That said, I’m still more than capable of doing fluff. It’s just gonna be laced with angst, most likely.

**PET AU:**

-My _classic._ Blatantly ripping this off from my DL works, this is an AU where demons and other such creatures have been, well, _domesticated_ for a very long time, and are kept as extra-fancy exotic pets. Like people keeping tigers as pets, but far more commonplace. They’ve been bred down to be much, much weaker and shorter-lived than the ones we see in canon, and are considered dangerous enough that they have to be constantly kept in check. Abuse and mistreatment run rampant for the simple reason that humans just don’t care, and no one gets happiness. Also worth noting; the boys are in their demon forms by default in this one. 

_Lucifer_ is a “companion” type. Raised to be something of a domestic servant, but with no rights or autonomy of any sort.

 _Mammon_ is a “house pet” type. There are no real expectations here beyond basic obedience, which he _still_ fails miserably at. 

_Leviathan_ is a “house pet” type. This type is the most common, and are kind of a catch-all for ones with no specific purpose. 

_Satan_ is a “companion” type like Lucifer; extremely well-trained, but almost neurotic about perfection by default. 

_Asmodeus_ is _officially_ a “house pet” type, but in reality, is what amounts to a sex slave rented around to keep his breeder in business. 

_Beelzebub_ is a “labor” type. Because he’s big and physically stronger, he’s too intimidating to be appealing to normal owners.

 _Belphegor_ is a “house pet” type. Used for whatever his owner would want, but not trained for anything in particular. 

**HUMAN AU:**

-This one is also blatantly inspired by my Diabolik Lovers stuff. Through whatever means the story calls for, the boys get de-powered and reduced to what amounts to human, and are thus forced to figure out how to live as “people”. The Reader-insert in this can either be a human or a demon, depending on what y’all want. Scenarios here could either go fluffy or mean, so it’s pretty flexible. Anything goes-- from cute fluffies with the boys feeling weirdly helpless, to downright cruelty with a demon Reader taking full advantage of how weak they are now. _Go wild._

**KIDNAPPING AU:**

-The Au where a (assumedly very powerful) Reader with no prior connection to the boys decides that they’re very, very pretty. And that Reader _wants_ them. So, obviously, Reader finds a (probably unspecified) way to get exactly what they want. Which unfortunately amounts to the boys de-powered and shut in their basement~ From there, everything is up to the creativity of the author and/or requester! The fun thing about this Au is that it can go _anywhere._ Smutty? Yep! Dark and cruel? Absolutely! Weirdly violating fluff? But of course! There are really no limits here, so please, offer up whatever delightfully horrible ideas you have~ 

**HUNTER AU:**

-The mean one. Like, probably even surpassing Pet Au in terms of pure cruelty and pain. The premise of this one is that Reader is a demon hunter who brings the boys down and keeps them in captivity, torturing them for information (and for the fun of it), as well as performing various "experiments" to see how their species deals with stress. This is the Au that I expect to get _nasty._ Smut is perfectly acceptable, as always, but I really do encourage pure pain for this one too. Ever wanted to see our pretty boys break? Because that’s what this Au is designed for. 


	2. Pet Au!Beelzebub/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am very, very nervous about this O-O This is my first-ever fic in the fandom, so I'm afraid that I've somehow messed it all up. Uh, I'll get over it soon enough, but please forgive any characterization mistakes. I'm learning, I swear. >w>I don't know how fast updates here will be, but I'm very excited about the series for the time being, so expect more soon, hopefully!! Thank you so much to anyone who's requested, and please, keep sending stuff in :3c As is the pattern, the request for this chapter is below!
> 
> "Finally! You are one of us! We have another master in the fandom. I was hoping you would write for Obey Me one day. I'm glad my wish came through lol.
> 
> I have a request for pet AU Beel. He makes a mistake and accidentally hurts his employer. They're furious and wants Beel to be put down, saying that he's dangerous. The reader finds out about it and decides to take Beel as her per, paying the employer a large sum of money. From there, the reader just spoils Beel and sees how much of a gentle giant he could be. (Basically a mix of angst and fluff)"

The cage around him feels suffocating. It’s the same size as it’s always been, the same as it’s been in all the days he’s stayed here, but for some reason, the chain-link grate in front of him seems closer than it should be. 

Beelzebub sits with his knees tucked up in front of him. He’s cold. His stomach feels like it’s chewing a hole in the middle of him. Neither of these things is very new, but it’s all worse today than it’s ever been. After being alone in the cage for what’s probably been close to a week, with no one bothering to so much as feed him, Beelzebub is downright miserable. 

Of course, he knows he deserves it. He  _ hurt  _ someone. A human, which is the bad part. If it had been another demon, nothing would have happened beyond some form of simple discipline. Painful, of course, but something that he’d both know he deserved and take obediently. But-- Since he made the  _ stupid, awful  _ mistake of lashing out, of getting a grip on someone’s wrist and squeezing down until, as he’s told, the bone was  _ shattered _ \-- 

He was half-asleep when it happened, woken up far too suddenly from one of the nightmares that never quite leave his head. The kind that hovers around for days afterward, scratching at his insides with residual fear. The kind that has him cracking concrete in his sleep. 

It was a mistake. An accident. 

It doesn’t matter. 

His owner, or rather, his  _ former _ owner had been insistent. Beelzebub is dangerous. He’s disobedient. He’s all kinds of horrible things that had made Beelzebub flinch just hearing them from the room over. 

Everyone knows what happens to the dangerous ones. Since demons are bigger and stronger than humans, no matter what their place in the world is, it only makes sense that the bad ones have to be put down. He heard his owner decide that in words that left no room for doubt. 

So. Beelzebub is going to die. That’s all there really is to it now. And that’s why he’s curled up in the farthest corner of his cage, in solitary where they threw him while he waits to be killed. Knees pulled to his chest, back pressed against the wall, Beelzebub tries to make himself as small as possible. The position puts far too much pressure against his wings-- a sharp, stabbing pain-- but that doesn’t really matter at the moment. All Beelzebub wants to do is look as small and harmless as he can. 

That’s-- not very. As tall as he is, as strong as his body is from years of hard work and genetics alone, there really isn’t any way for Beelzebub to look like anything but intimidating. He’s small on the inside. It’s a stupid thought, but he really is. He’d never, never hurt anyone on purpose-- It was an accident, an  _ accident,  _ and now he’s going to die--

Beelzebub forces himself to breathe. He’s alright, for now. He’s so hungry he’s vaguely tempted to start chewing on the bricks, but he’s okay. 

Beelzebub stays curled up right in that corner, burying his face in his knees and trying not to think about much of anything. There’s nothing resembling a bed in the cage, not even a blanket, so his best option for sleeping off the worst of the fear is to stay still and hope for what he can. 

He’ll have a bullet in his head soon. He’ll be dead and never have to worry about anything he again. There will be no more being hungry, no more having to work, and no more worrying about where his brothers could be right now, if they’re even still alive. Maybe he’ll see one of them again when he dies. If demons go anywhere, to begin with, that is. 

An interruption from those thoughts comes in the form of the door slamming open and a very angry-looking guard storming inside. 

The surprise makes Beelzebub snap his head up, almost bashing his horns against the wall. Immediately, he flinches, shrinking back and trying to pretend like he really is harmless. This is probably when it’s going to happen. They’re going to drag him outside and-- and--

“Come on,” the guard hisses, unlatching the cage’s door and roughly forcing it open. “And don’t even think about doing anything stupid. Someone’s taking pity on you, so you’d better not fuck it up.”

Stupid. He probably  _ is  _ stupid, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to hurt anyone. No one will ever believe that he didn’t try to do it. 

Anxiously wondering what ‘pity’ means, Beelzebub hauls himself to his hands and knees, crawling obediently to where he’s supposed to be. He’s more used to walking upright than a lot of his kind are, but he knows what he’s meant to do when he’s here. Even if he does hate the way it exposes his wings, leaving them in easy grabbing reach of anyone who feels like it. 

The guard clips a leash onto the thick, uncomfortably tight collar around Beelzebub’s throat, then guides him out of the room. If there was anything in his stomach, Beelzebub thinks he would have vomited by now. 

By the time they’re out of that room, he’s shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. His wings are twitching nervously, he’s nauseous, all he feels like doing is finding somewhere small and dark to  _ hide.  _ As if he could get away from all of this by hiding until someone forgives him. 

But instead of taking him out back, or anywhere else that Beelzebub could believe they’d kill him, he gets lead to the front room. 

There are people waiting there; two more guards, someone who Beelzebub knows to be in charge, and a human that he’s never seen before, smiling at everyone there with such politeness that it can only mean fury. 

“Ah, there he is,” the person in charge says dismissively, looking down at Beelzebub with barely-concealed irritation. “Now, are you sure you want to do this? You know that it’s trouble, so don’t go coming back with a complaint when it does something it shouldn’t.”

“I’m  _ very  _ sure,” you say, glancing at Beelzebub with a softness that startles him, totally different from your harsh tone. 

From there, you pull a stack of bills from your wallet, handing them over to the man in charge with a disgusted expression. It’s a lot of money. Beelzebub tries to think of why you could be doing that, why he even needs to be here, and the only conclusion he can come to is one that makes him shake even harder. This looks like a purchase. And that means-- If he’s right at all, that means that you might be buying him. 

Once the money is exchanged, you come over and take Beelzebub’s leash, smiling sweetly at the guard as you do. With a brief ‘come on’, you lead Beelzebub out of the place where he was sure he was going to die. 

It takes a moment for his terror-addled mind to make sense of what’s happening, but when it does, out on the sidewalk, it hits him like what he images a truck would feel like. Instantly, the tremors in his limbs get a thousand times worse. He gags hard, heaving, vomiting on the ground in front of him from a mixture of fear and sheer relief. 

Fortunately, nothing comes up. His stomach is so empty that it would have been impossible. Unfortunately, you’re looking at him. Beelzebub starts shaking all over again. He’s fully expecting to be kicked in the side or screamed at for making trouble, for causing a mess. Anyone would do it. 

“You okay?” you ask instead, kneeling down to his level. Your expression is still so soft. Beelzebub’s heart does a dangerous twist in his chest. Humans don’t look at him like that. Humans don’t worry about him. 

But he nods, shifting back to his hands and knees properly. You stand up again, looking rather worried, but you keep moving. In the middle of the parking lot is an average-looking vehicle, obviously for personal use. No loading truck hauling him off to some unknown location. Just a regular car. You open the door to the back seat for him, and Beelzebub climbs inside with as much grace as he can muster, considering how weak he feels. 

Time sort of blurs after that. There’s a ride home, scenery passing by in a rush outside the window. There’s a radio playing in the background. Beelzebub doesn’t have the energy or presence of mind to pay attention to any of it. He’s far too busy thinking about what could happen next. You bought him. You’re the one taking him somewhere. A new home could either be better or worse than his last one, but all Beelzebub can be is grateful that he’s alive at all. That he’s not going to be one more corpse in a ditch. 

He doesn’t exactly remember getting into your house either. It’s probably stress, but one minute he’s easing himself out of the vehicle, and the next he’s sitting on the floor in what has to be your living room. 

This isn’t where he’s meant to be. Beelzebub hasn’t been in a house, in a  _ person’s  _ house in his life. He’s kept outside where he belongs. 

So he can’t hurt anything. So he can’t break anything. 

So he can’t be  _ bad.  _

There’s carpet under his knees, taking some of the pain of supporting his weight away. Even kneeling, all seven feet and some inches of him feel way too big and awkward. He’s going to do something wrong.

“Hey there,” you say, crouching down in front of him with a smile. Beelzebub flinches. He’s sort of expecting you to hit him, even though he doesn’t know what he did yet. “What’s your name, big guy?”

“Beelzebub...” he mutters, the words feeling strange in his throat. he’s not allowed to talk very often. It’s tough to get anything out. 

“I’m gonna call you Beel then, okay? I’m really sorry that this is so sudden. I heard about... y’know, the  _ incident  _ from a friend and, well, I couldn’t leave you. It was an accident, wasn’t it? You didn’t try to hurt anybody.” You’re looking him right in the eyes, or trying to. Beelzebub feels a thousand levels of uncomfortable, squirming under the scrutiny. 

“It... yeah. An accident.” There’s no use trying to hide it. You already know how badly he fucked up. You could get rid of him anytime you want. 

“That’s what I thought. Thank you for being honest with me.” You reach a hand out toward Beelzebub’s face. He flinches on instinct, anticipating a hit, but instead of anything painful, your hand goes to his hair. Petting him. Running your fingers through his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. Thankfully avoiding his horns, but just. Petting. 

He can’t help but lean into it, eyes fluttering closed. He’s not a house pet. He’s not a companion. He’s not anything that anyone ever had any reason to touch gently. The feeling of it is foreign, but Beelzebub knows already that he wants more of this more than anything. 

“Alright.” You pull away. Beelzebub involuntarily whines at the loss. “I think the first thing I should do is get you something to eat. I doubt anyone back at that store has been very nice about that, huh?”

Beelzebub freezes at the very mention of food. It’s been close to a week since anyone bothered to feed him, which is probably a good part of why he’s feeling so weak and shaky. Over those days, the hunger has become an ache that’s impossible to ignore. And yeah, he’s always, always hungry, but this time it’s  _ worse.  _ It’s never been this long, and-- and--

Nodding, Beelzebub fights the urge to curl up and hide. 

After telling him to stay where he is, you leave for a moment. You come back with a foil-wrapped something in your hand. 

Once again, you kneel down next to him, unwrapping the object and gently handing it to him. It’s human food, fresh and warm and smelling  _ good  _ instead of vaguely spoiled or stale. Beelzebub’s stomach clenches at the very sight. He looks at you uneasily, hoping that it won’t be some kind of trick. 

“It’s for you. I want you to eat it. It’s just fast food, but I have the feeling you’ll like it.” You’re still smiling. You don’t sound angry or unhappy at all, and Beelzebub already feels like squirming under the attention. 

Because you told him to, he takes a hesitant bite, prepared to spit the food out the second you order him to. But no such order comes, and as soon as the taste of meat flood over his tongue, Beelzebub couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. It takes four bites for the whole thing to go down, barely chewing. His stomach clenches painfully at the feeling of actual food in it for the first time in so long, and as soon as it’s gone, Beelzebub is left staring at his hand, dangerously, ungratefully wishing that there could be more. 

You take the foil wrapper from his hand, fingers brushing up against his. Beelzebub is fairly certain that he took a bite out of the  _ wrapper  _ at some point, but you don’t look upset. You just look pleased, like Beelzebub was very obedient and good indeed. It’s a new feeling. A good one. 

“There we go. Thank you for eating, Beel.” You pat his head again. Beelzebub has to actively try not to lean into it again, shivering when you brush a little too close to the base of one horn. “Next, I want you to get some rest. You look exhausted.” A sympathetic smile. “There’ll be more food when you wake up, so c’mere. I have a bed for you.”

There’s a corner of the living room with a pile of blankets in it. Pillows too. Soft things that can’t,  _ can’t  _ be for him. It’s not a cage or a concrete floor or any number of other places that something like him should be. 

But you stand there expectantly, gesturing at the little next like you really mean it. Even though he expects to be punished for it, he has little choice but to obey. He crawls into the pile of blankets tentatively, wincing a bit when his skin first touches the softness. The pile is big enough for him to lay down in. It’s like it was meant for him, but that can’t be true. You know that he’s a labor-type. You know that he’s not meant to be kept indoors. 

“That’s yours. You’re allowed to stay there, and I want you to try to sleep. I promise I’ll have something for you to eat again when you wake up!” You say it cheerfully, looking down at Beelzebub like you’ve never been happier. “You’re the first demon I’ve taken care of, so I know I’ll have a lot to learn, but I’m gonna do my best for you. I saved you, right? I want you to live. Happily. I want you to be okay.” Every word is confident, not a trace of mockery or disdain to be found. 

Because there’s no way he could  _ not  _ obey now, Beelzebub lowers himself carefully down to the blankets. The cloth is soft against his belly, and when he dares to curl up onto his side, involuntarily burrowing into the nest, it’s immediate relief. 

He’ll be good for you. He’ll sleep just like you said, and maybe you’ll have been serious about that promise. Maybe it’ll be okay.  _ Somehow.  _


	3. Pet Au!Lucifer/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay~ A very quick chapter! These are very, very easy to write O-O Probably because I'm so excited. Pet Au seems to really be taking off, though, and I'm super happy about that!! I really wasn't sure how well my weird ideas would go over in this fandom, so it's nice to see that they're liked! Thank you to everyone who's requested so far, and I look forward to everything that y'all will send in! :D As always, the request is below~ 
> 
> "I have a request for a Pet Au but with Lucifer, you come across him as you're the niece/nephew of his previous Owner, your aunt, but you don't get to properly meet him until your aunt passes away and leaves him to you in her will and so Lucifer moves into your home and you try to help him gain a sense of independence and do your best to earn his trust, not as an owner, but as a friend instead."

You’ve met the demon once or twice before. He’d been in your aunt’s care for as long as you could remember-- a permanent shadow around her house. He was always quiet, always so out of the way you barely noticed him. When you were little, you thought he always looked  _ sad.  _

But your father had never gotten along with his sister, and your visits to your aunt’s house had ended around the time you were eight. You’d lived out the rest of your life up until now with no more than vague memories assigned to the creature that had belonged to the woman. You hadn’t thought twice about him. You hadn’t needed to. 

Now, though, with your aunt passed away and you living on your own, you suddenly have one very big reason to care about the demon again. 

Namely, that your aunt had left him to you in her will. 

You... really don’t know what to do. You’ve never owned a demon before, never even considered the idea. It’s always seemed a little cruel to you to keep such human-looking creatures as pets. Everyone always says that they’re  _ far  _ better off with humans looking after them, but you think that every demon you’ve ever seen looks more than a little broken. 

So. There’s the problem. You don’t really know what you’re going to do with a demon. You’ll probably have to treat him mostly like a person, because you honestly don’t know if you could bring yourself to do otherwise. 

Someone is coming today to deliver the demon. You don’t even remember his name, which makes you feel all kinds of awful. You  _ really  _ don’t know how you’re going to handle this. It seems like a bad idea on every front for you to be entrusted with what amounts to another person, but at the same time, you know that denying the demon would only end in him going somewhere much worse. A shelter, probably. And then winding up in either some downright awful home or put down when he doesn’t sell. 

You’re protecting him by taking him in, you remind yourself. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, you can at least keep him safe. 

After spending a solid thirty minutes of the estimated delivery time pacing, there’s finally a knock at your door. You’re left bracing yourself to face whatever’s about to happen, whatever  _ he’s  _ going to be like. 

You have to sign some paperwork. Just a few quick, simple pages asserting your agreement to take the demon into your household. It feels sort of sick to sign  _ papers  _ making it so that you own whoever this poor creature is going to be, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. 

Then, the delivery person steps aside, revealing the demon himself. 

The first thing you think is that he’s  _ huge.  _ You knew that demons are bigger than people, and you do remember him being massive, but up close, the demon has to be at least seven feet. However, despite his size, he looks worryingly weak. His pale skin has a sickly pallor to it. His dark hair falls in his face in a style that’s almost pitiful. His body, instead of the natural strength you’d expect, is lithe enough that you can guess he’s half-starved.

His horns are tall and curved, adding a good few more inches of height. However, they’re dull and rough, clearly not taken proper care of. His wings-- two pairs-- are equally so. Their feathers, which you imagine are supposed to be a rich, inky black are instead a sick, muted charcoal sort of color. The feathers are askew in places, sticking out at odd, unhappy angles. 

As the delivery person leaves, the demon looks up at you. His eyes are a beautiful gradient of black and gray and red, but the look of misery you’ve been expecting is just the same as you remember. His expression is serene and composed, downright submissive, but all you can see is pain. 

Even so, there’s a certain pride about him. Even kneeling before you, just signed into your ownership, the demon seems somehow dignified.

“Um, hello there,” you start, trying to sound confident. “It’s nice to meet you. Could you come inside, please?” He’s wearing a collar, but you  _ really  _ don’t want to think about the prospect of a leash. 

Obediently, the demon eases himself up to his hands and knees, crawling the few steps from the porch to your living room with ease. Some demons, mostly companion and labor types, are allowed-- if not expected-- to stand like people. The rest are required to crawl, to keep themselves lower than humans and always make sure they look harmless and small. 

You know already that this one is a companion type. He reasonably could be on his feet. You get the feeling that he’s being a little too careful about keeping his behavior in check. You  _ know  _ that you don’t want to think about what could be going on inside his head right now. 

“Okay,” you say when the door is shut and locked, when the demon is sitting properly, back straight, just a few nerve-wracking paces in front of you. “First question. Do you remember me?”

The demon nods, not quite making eye contact. 

“That’s good.” It’s also kind of disturbing. You  _ really  _ hope he remembers you fondly. “Next question; what’s your name?”

You’re sort of expecting the demon not to answer. He seems like the type that’s too submissive for his own good, and you don’t exactly remember him talking, either. It takes a moment or two, but--

“Lucifer, owner,” the demon says. His voice is low and smooth, sliding over the words with an uncertainty that makes you think he hasn’t spoken in quite a while. The ‘owner’ tacked on at the end just makes you feel sort of sick. That’s... definitely something you’re going to have to talk him out of. 

“Alright. Thank you for answering me, Lucifer. Um, I take it you know what’s going on? I’ll explain just to be safe, so, well... my aunt left you to me in her will. You’re mine now, as much as I hate phrasing it like that. I just want you to know that I’ve... never really done this before. I’m going to do my best to take care of you properly, but I know I’ll get a lot wrong.”

Lucifer looks at you with an expression so consciously passive that it makes your skin crawl. He’s  _ trying  _ not to show any emotion, and the worst part is that you honestly can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

You politely ask Lucifer to follow you. You’d cleared out a room for him days in advance, and, well, you hope it’ll be good enough. Lucifer trails after you obediently, staying about three feet from your heels. It’s still disturbing. You have the feeling that telling him to stop would end badly. 

“This room is yours. You can stay here when you want to and go out into the rest of the house when you want to.”

“Yes, owner.” Lucifer’s gaze flickers around the room. It’s... not that special. Just a bed and a few other essential pieces of furniture. Nothing personal or unnecessary. It’s more the result of short notice than anything. You really, really want to adjust things to his taste, but that’s probably going to come a lot later. Probably after the ‘owner’ part goes away too. 

You’re  _ really  _ in too deep. 

. . . 

The next few days are tense. You try to leave Lucifer mostly to his own devices, in part because you want to give the poor man some sense of independence, and in part because you really don’t know what else to do. 

Every morning, Lucifer is sitting in the living room, back ruler-straight, facing your bedroom door. The next matter is trying to get him to eat. Despite you offering food to him, Lucifer eats a disturbingly little amount for someone his size. You  _ know  _ he has to be hungry, but he picks at whatever you give him, eyeing it almost nervously and only eating small portions at a time. The only thing you read from the behavior is that he’s  _ scared.  _

Even weirder, Lucifer doesn’t really do anything. He follows you around sometimes, and when he doesn’t, he just sits in the living room with his eyes closed, clearly listening to your movements around the house. It almost looks like he’s waiting for something, but you have no idea what.

He doesn’t look at you. That one moment of eye contact you got in the first few moments of knowing him was the end of it Lucifer looks at your feet or at the ground, never, never meeting your eyes. 

You’re honestly stumped. And also more than a little scared to initiate anything. You want to see him calm down a little bit, maybe find something to do with himself, but just trying to  _ talk  _ to the demon feels like an insurmountable challenge. You’re kind of ashamed of it, but you leave the situation be for close to a week before doing anything about it. 

. . . 

It’s on day eight that something finally changes. 

You’ve gotten up earlier than usual. Only about an hour, but for once, Lucifer isn’t in front of your door. You make yourself breakfast, prepare a portion for your demon too, and, by then, have a distinct impulse. 

You want to check on him. You don’t know why, but you have the feeling that you should. Despite trying to convince yourself that there’s some reason to be worried about him, you kind of just want to see him asleep. It might add some humanity to the massive shadow of a demon that you just, don’t  _ get  _ when he’s awake. It sounds like it would be a relief. 

And anyway, isn’t taking people breakfast in bed a good thing? You grab Lucifer’s breakfast and decide that it probably is. 

Lucifer’s door isn’t shut. You glance inside the room, but--

He’s definitely not in the bed. 

You have a moment of panic for all of three seconds, almost dropping the food you’re holding before noticing a very large dark spot in the far corner. Relief hits you first, followed by a whole lot of confusion. 

By the time you cross the room, Lucifer’s eyes have slitted open. They glow in the dark, because of course a demon’s would. His massive body is curled up as small as he can get it, laying on his side with every limb tucked in. Even his wings are held close, as if shielding the rest of him from something. There’s not a single blanket in that corner. He’s sleeping on straight hardwood. The bed is visibly untouched. 

“What are you  _ doing?”  _ you ask, unable to keep some measure of irritation out of your voice. “Why are you on the floor?”

Lucifer flinches, actually  _ flinches.  _ The sight of seven feet of demon all but cowering before you is not a pleasant one. You get the feeling that he thinks you’re going to hit him, if not something much, much worse. 

“I was sleeping, owner. My apologies.”

“No, no, the sleeping is definitely not the problem here. What I’m asking is why the _floor?_ Like, you have a bed. Is there something wrong with it?” Your tone might be a little too sharp, but it’s hard not to let it be. 

“Demons sleep on the floor, owner. I had thought that your rules would resemble those of my previous home. Forgive me for assuming.” While he’s talking, Lucifer eases himself up to his knees. The moment of eye-contact ends, and he’s right back to staring at your feet. 

You don’t know what to do with this. You  _ really  _ don’t know what to do with this. There are a thousand questions, and none of them have a good answer. How anyone could make what amounts to a person sleep on bare hardwood for their whole life is beyond you. You sort of want to hit your aunt, but more than that, you want to figure out how to fix this. 

Dropping to your knees in front of Lucifer makes him flinch again. You’re shorter than him like this, and he’s clearly uncomfortable with that.

“Not here they don’t. I’m not mad at you, but... I guess the rules are different here. I hate to call them ‘rules’, but I’m not going to treat you like that. If you really want to sleep on the floor, you can, but I’m going to insist that you at least use a couple of blankets. The bed is for you, though. You’re welcome to use it. This room is yours. What’s in it is  _ yours.” _ You explain it all as calmly as possible, trying not to do anything that Lucifer could take as you being upset. You think you’re starting to understand. 

Lucifer swallows. He’s not looking at you, but his eyes are wide. His red-nailed hands are in his lap, clasped together, the nails of one digging into the palm of the other. He looks like he wants to fidget nervously, but doesn’t quite dare to. You think that he looks very, very scared. 

You’re starting to get the idea of what’s been going on here. You aren’t exactly aware of how demons are usually treated in a household, but you’re quickly getting an impression of it. Sleep on the floor. Don’t eat more than absolutely necessary. Wait for orders and don’t act out. Thinking about it now, a  _ lot  _ of things Lucifer’s been doing make a lot more sense. 

“I’m sorry.” As soon as you say it, Lucifer snaps to attention, meeting your eye on what you can only guess is instinct. 

“I’ve been misinterpreting a lot, and I’m sorry. You’ve been waiting for orders, right?” He nods, quickly averting his eyes. “That’s what I just figured out. I know I’m a dumbass for not figuring it out sooner, but they said you were a companion type, and I  _ really  _ should have got the message faster than this. You’re expecting to be helping around the house, right?”

“Yes, owner,” he replies, a line of tension in his voice that’s totally new. He might be upset with you for being stupid. He honestly should be. You’ve kind of had a line of fuckups for the past  _ week.  _

“Alright, then I’ll try better!” You smile at him. Lucifer looks very, very confused, and somehow, far more nervous than he did before. “I want you to be able to be independent. You’re not my slave. I know you’re not exactly a person, either, not by a lot of people’s standards, but I want to treat you like one. As much as I can. So that’s what we’re working towards. I’ll do whatever I need to. You’re in my care, so I’ll do my best for you, Lucifer.”

With that, you reach up, brushing the long bit of bangs out of Lucifer’s face. He squeezes his eyes shut, but manages to keep himself from flinching. You don’t miss the way he ever-so-slightly leans into the touch, expression relaxing just a bit as his head tips to the side. 

“First order of business; I want you to eat. As much as you can without getting sick. You’re allowed to. I want you to be healthy.” You grab the plate from where you’d set it down, offering it to him.

Obediently, Lucifer takes the plate from your hands, picks up the fork, and with one tense look in your direction, begins to eat. 

It’s just scrambled eggs and toast, but Lucifer eats like he’s savoring it immensely. You don’t know what your aunt was feeding him-- you hope it wasn’t, you don’t know, _cat food--_ but this definitely appears to be an improvement by his standards. He eats slowly, carefully, not spilling so much as a crumb. Watching sort of makes your heart hurt. 

“Finished, owner,” he says, holding the plate in his lap. 

“Good job. Thank you.”  _ That  _ makes his shoulders hunch up a bit. “Are you still hungry? Answer me honestly, please.”

“...yes, owner.” It’s like it pains him to even say it. 

“That’s okay. Thank you for telling me. You’re doing great.” You really want to pet his hair again. The poor guy deserves some positive attention. “Next question; what kind of food do you like? If you don’t know, that’s okay, but please do tell me if you can think of anything.”

Lucifer looks at the ground like that thought has never occurred to him before. Even so, this is feeling easier. It’s weird to slip into the role of well, an owner, but suddenly, you think you understand what you have to do. 

“I... Apples, I suppose. That’s all I can think of, owner.” Lucifer’s voice breaks in the middle of his sentence. You think you can him shaking. 

“Perfect. That’s another job well done for thinking of something for me.” This time, you really do reach out to pet him again. This time, his eyes only flutter closed. You can see some slight line of tension bleed out of him when you rub your nails against his scalp. When was the last time anyone touched him like this? Fuck, you probably don’t want to know. 

A moment passes like that. You keep petting him, and Lucifer slowly, slowly starts to relax. His wings droop a bit, easing out of where they were held so close to his body. He’s not digging his nails into his hand anymore. You can feel the way he’s leaning into your fingers. 

The more you think about it, the more you want to keep doing this. Lucifer isn’t as intimidating as you thought, not up close, and as obviously starved of kindness as the man is, you think it wouldn’t hurt a bit to change that. He really doesn’t understand what it’s like not to be treated like a pet, but... you can work with that. You can start small. In the meantime, you can take better care of him than anyone ever has. 

He’s meant to do housework, from what you can gather. A companion type must be meant to be something of a domestic servant, if the pieces you’re putting together are right. That’s workable. 

“Okay, next order of business. Come out to the kitchen with me. You can help me make more food, for both of us. We can do the dishes together, and after that, you’re going to get a shower. I take it you can do that?” It still feels sort of wrong, but you’re probably going to  _ have  _ to give him orders for a while. If that’s what he needs, it’s your job to take care of him. 

“Yes, owner.” It’s the same words as before, but somehow, Lucifer’s tone seems lighter. It must be a relief to finally have some idea of what to do. You feel worse than ever for putting this off for so long. 

“Come on. Stand up, please. I’d rather you walk upright while you’re with me.” Finally stopping with the petting, you get to your feet. 

Lucifer does the same. You have a momentary brain-pause at just how  _ huge  _ he is, but you quickly push that aside. He’s harmless. You don’t have to be scared. Your demon is more broken than anything, and... you know you can do something to fix it. You know you can do something to try. 


	4. Pet Au!Satan/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm... fast update much???? XD I guess I'm a lot more excited about this series than I thought I was. 'Cause like, I'm at 4,000+ words for the day and I still want to keep going. Expect another chapter soon hopefully! I really want to keep up the pace and get all the fun ideas written out!!! :D As always, the request for this chapter is below, and I'm looking forward to getting even more ideas from everyone!!!
> 
> "This is amazing!!! I love the Idea of the pet Au so much and am very excited to see whats next! In the rules and info chapter you said you didn't mind ideas and requests being sent your way so I hope this one is okay :D You know how in real life horrible people do dogs fighting? So maybe in the pet Au there is demon fighting where owners have their demons fight each other to the death or something. So can I request a scenario where reader finds a almost dead Satan who was thrown out and left for dead after a failed match or something? Possibly with a fluffy end like the one with Beel is? I know you said that he is a companion type but I figure with how quick is is to anger he would make a good fighter."

In the rain, you’re driving home from work. when you see something by the side of the road. At first, you don’t pay any attention. About a second after you’ve passed, though, your head almost whips back around. 

It sets in that that looked like a  _ person.  _

You pull around the block, looping back to where you saw the person-shaped lump, all while hoping that this won’t turn out to be something straight out of a forensics show. As soon as you’re out of the car, you know that you were exactly right about what you thought you saw. 

Well, sort of right. Up close, it quickly becomes apparent that the person on the ground isn’t what most people consider to be a  _ person.  _

It’s a demon. Relatively small, as far as their massive sizes go, flat on his stomach in a shallow, murky puddle. His hair is blonde, probably, but it’s matted with so much dark, sticky blood that it’s hard to tell. One horn is broken off, and he’s covered in so many wounds that you’re wondering how he’s still alive. There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood. You thank everything good that he appears to still be breathing, albeit shallowly. 

His wounds appear to be very, very intentional. Claw marks. Gouges. Dark, angry bruises around his throat. A crooked, broken nose. You’ve heard of fighting rings, where demons are pitted against each other until one of them winds up dead or as good as so. You can guess that those kinds of places wouldn’t be above throwing out a loser of a match. 

Just when you’re trying to think of what you’re supposed to do, the demon’s eyes slit open. They’re a stunning shade of teal and gold, but glazed and clouded over with pain and disorientation, visibly out of it. 

“Who... are you...?” the demon gets out, voice barely a croak. He sounds about as miserable as he looks. 

“Someone who’s going to help you.” You don’t know exactly when you made up your mind about that, but you definitely have.  _ No way  _ you’re leaving him to die by the street like a piece of roadkill. 

The demon  _ growls.  _

“No. L-Leave me... h-here... I don’t want... to li-- live...”

Wow, okay. That’s breaking your heart on a whole lot of levels. As much as you usually try to do what people want, that’s one wish that you’re not going to abide. Knowing you’ll probably feel bad about it later, you open your mouth with an order in mind that you hope he won’t refuse. 

“Nope. You’re  _ going  _ to live. Now, can you get up? I’ll call someone to help me if I need to, but you’re coming with me. Got that?”

The demon bristles, eyes focusing on some point a few feet past you. You hate ordering demons around like they’re animals, but with this one, well, desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying goes. 

“Of course... I-- I can... stand,” he hisses, already shifting. 

You feel guilty about making the demon move in the state he’s in, but somehow, he manages. He hauls himself to his feet unsteadily-- upright, you note-- and with a directive gesture from you, staggers over to your car. You open the door to the backseat, and as soon as he’s close enough, the demon all but collapses into it, hauling his broken, bloody body into the car. 

You take a moment to think about what the  _ fuck  _ you’re doing. This is a fighting-ring demon. He could take your head off in a second if he wanted to. Not to mention, if anyone finds out that you took him in under these circumstances, it might not end well. Demons with a history of violence are put down more often than not. Even though you just met him, you’re already weirdly attached to the fight in those intense eyes. You decide then and there that you’re going to protect him,  _ somehow.  _

The drive home is tense but uneventful. You can hear the demon breathing from where you sit. Every breath is sharp and painful-sounding, wheezing through his chest like it hurts to even take air in. You know you’re going to have blood on your seats. You really don’t care at this point. 

By the time you get home, the demon’s breathing has evened out a bit. When you open the door to the backseat, he’s with-it enough to glare at you, which is probably a good sign. Keeping his willpower up and all. 

Because you highly doubt he wants you touching him more than you have to, you let the demon stumble inside on his own, following close behind in case he can’t make it. Surprisingly, he gets inside fairly easily, probably keeping himself upright through strength of will alone. 

He has to lean against the wall more than a couple of times, but you’re still deeply impressed that he makes it without any form of help. 

From there, you guide him to your living room. The second you say he’s allowed to, he collapses onto the floor with a groan, rolling onto his side and curling in like every part of him hurts very badly. You can guess it  _ does.  _

Leaving the demon to his own devices for a few minutes, you run off to grab your first aid kit and a few other things. It’s... probably not going to be enough. Fortunately, you know that demons heal fast and well. With any luck, what you can do for him will be enough to get him to that point. 

The demon glares at you again when you get back. 

“Um, hi. I know you’re probably going to hate me for this, but I’m going to fix you up now. Please let me do what I need to.”

You kneel down next to the demon, who moves on to directing his glare at the closest wall. He’s tense all over, shoulders hunched up, and you  _ know  _ that that’s only making him hurt worse. He’s shivering too, which makes your heart kind of break. As soon as he’s cleaned up, you’re getting him a heated blanket and every fluffy thing in the house. But for now, the priority is taking care of all the injuries. Keeping him alive. 

Fortunately, the demon doesn’t resist. You have to cut off his clothes to get to everything. He wasn’t wearing much in the first place-- just a tattered, blood-soaked, oversized shirt-- but it still feels sort of violating. He stays still through it all, not trying to hide or cover up or anything. Just... laying there, wincing a bit whenever you hit something too painful. 

You clean up what you can, bandaging the deeper wounds and simply disinfecting the rest. By the time you’re done, the demon is breathing hard, shivering worse than ever, visibly chilled and hurting. 

The next thing you get for him is the pile of fluffy stuff you were planning to. And painkillers, because  _ obviously.  _ The wounds that were bleeding the most are pretty much covered by now, so you think it’s safe to get him bundled up. At the very least, the bloodstains on your blankets should be minimal. As soon as you get close to him with the first blanket, the demon eyes you like you’re crazy. Or maybe trying to hurt him. 

You think about how lots of demons are kept in cages, on concrete floors. You try not to think about that kind of thing for long. 

As soon as you’ve wrapped him up, the demon goes weirdly limp. He’s-- He’s laying on the side without the broken horn, clearly trying to keep it from touching anything. Demon horns are sensitive, right? A broken one must hurt horribly. Probably the worst pain on him right now. 

But you get like five blankets around him, including a heated one to ward off the worst of the chill. You’ll clean him up for real later, when he can keep himself up a little better, so for now, just keeping him warm will do. 

Then, you press the pain pills into his hand, holding out a glass of water. The demon twitches when your skin touches his, then eyes the pills with disdain. Instead of taking the water, he downs the pills dry, making a face like he fully expects it to be poison. At this point, considering that he doesn’t want to be alive very badly, you kind of doubt that he’d care. 

You sit there for a minute or two, not quite knowing what to say. The demon doesn’t do anything but breathe and stay very still. Covered in bandages, bruised skin on display, he looks awfully fragile for someone measuring well over six feet. You’re not exactly reading ‘scared’ from him, but he’s definitely not comfortable with your presence at all. Anxious, maybe. Probably expecting you to hurt him even worse. 

“So... what’s your name?” you ask eventually. “‘Cause I don’t know what to call you right now and, well, you deserve a name.”

“Satan,” is all he says, muttering it into the blankets. 

“Okay. Um, thank you. I’m glad you told me. This next one is going to be kind of a rough question, but you’re from a fighting ring or something, right?” You feel guilty even asking it, but you do need to know what’s going on. Satan is kind of your responsibility right now. You have to understand. 

“Hmph, at l-least you’re smart enough t-to... to figure th-that much out.” His voice is still shaky. He’s obviously pained, and probably so out-of-it that words are difficult, period. 

“Yeah, I guess I am. Next probably-uncomfortable question; is anyone going to be looking for you? Do I need to worry about someone showing up and trying to take you back?” You feel  _ really  _ guilty asking that one, but you need to be prepared. You’ve only known Satan for an hour or so, but there’s no way you’re letting him fall back into the place he came from. 

“What d-do you think...? In-- I-In this state... I-I’m useless. No one is c-c-coming for me. Y-You’ll have to... to deal-- deal with me yourself.” He says it bitterly, like it’s some horrible fate that you have to be near him. For a demon who’s spent assumedly most of his life killing his own kind, he’s surprisingly... calm, you suppose is the word. You’d expect violent, angry, swiping at your hands and threatening you to just let him die. 

Not laying there like a corpse, staying perfectly still and answering your questions with only a hint of irritation in his tone. 

“You’re... not what I expected,” you say eventually, blurting it out.

“I-I was a companion ty-type... at one point. Trained f-for it... Ruined... r-ruined for that now, though.” Satan heaves a bitter little laugh. You can see him curling in just a bit tighter, seemingly hiding his face. 

Ah. That makes your heart hurt. Companion types are meant to be close to humans. Something like domestic servants, but allowed closeness and responsibility. Independence, in a way. Being trained for such a role, then having all of that privilege yanked away. Being forced to fight and kill to stay alive, then thrown out when he ceased to be useful. 

You decide very quickly that you’re keeping this one. 

. . . 

Over the next couple of days, things improve. Sort of. Satan heals just as quickly as you’d expect a demon to, his wounds knitting back together in record time. He’s up on his feet by day two, at which point you politely request that he gets a proper shower. 

He looks... better. A lot better, once all of the blood is off of him. His hair is the exact shade of soft, golden blonde that you were expecting. 

You bandage his wounds again, doing it yourself because you feel like you need to. Satan probably hasn’t had, well,  _ any  _ positive attention from humans in his lifetime. The least you can do is start to turn that around. 

Getting food in him helps too. You cook in large portions, often just to satisfy the appetite of a creature his size that happens to be half-starved. He eats like he is, anyway, which makes you all kinds of sad. A lot of things about him make you sad. This hurts the most because you still can’t figure out quite what you’re supposed to do to fix it. 

For the most part, there’s not much contact between you. You keep a careful eye on him, monitoring the state of his injuries and making sure that he takes care of himself. In return, Satan minds his own business. He stays out of trouble when you’re at work, never leaving the house or doing anything he shouldn’t. Every day, you come home to him curled up his pile of blankets, not sleeping, but lying there with his eyes half open like some kind of distrustful alley cat that you drug in from the rain. 

It’s a strange agreement, but one that you’re pretty okay with. He’s healthy, healing, and even if he’s not exactly happy to be with you, you like to think that you’re improving his quality of life by quite a bit. 

You notice that he has nightmares. You never say anything, because you have the feeling that the poor man’s pride couldn’t take it, but you see him squirming in his sleep more often than not, a tense expression etched across his surprisingly-delicate features. In those moments, he wakes up suddenly, looking at you like he doesn’t remember quite where he is. 

Sometime around day four, Satan doesn’t move upright anymore. You think that he might still do it when you’re not there, but if you’re home, it’s hands and knees only, staying down like you know house pets are expected to. A bizarre change from the spirit you saw from him before. 

He withdraws, never speaking unless asked a question, and solemnly following whatever requests you make of him. 

For a while, you think that he really is unhappy to be with you. That he might really wish that you’d left him to die. The thought is painful, but you know that you needed to force him into living. It... It’ll get better. You know it will. Satan has a home now, and you’ll make sure that it’s a good one, even if you’re starting to believe that he hates you. 

But then, one night when you’re curled up on the couch watching TV, completely absorbed in the drama on the screen, something changes. 

You feel soft hair against one arm. 

Satan. 

He’s moved to right in front of the couch, sitting with his legs tucked up under him and leaning back against the seats. What you can see of his face looks perfectly calm. This is the closest he’s been to you since day one. 

“Um... what are you doing? Not that I’m complaining! But just... why?” you ask, hoping it won’t break the moment.

“It’s interesting,” is all he says, eyes fixed on the TV. “I wanted to see it.” While you definitely believe that that’s true, the way he’s coming  _ so  _ close to resting his head on your arm is saying something very different as well. His broken horn is facing you. It’s a show of vulnerability that you never imagined he’d allow you to witness. 

“So, you like dramas?” You’re debating doing something very stupid. 

“I might. It’s not like I’ve had very many chances to watch them. All I know about TV is what you’ve had on.” He says it neutrally, but you’re suddenly regretting  _ so much  _ about your taste. 

“Well, you can watch then, then. See if you like them or not. If you need an order or something, here it is; please use the TV as you want to. You can watch whatever you feel like. Oh, and if you’re okay with reading, I could bring you books, too? I feel kind of bad leaving you here all day with nothing to do.” Some companion types can read, you know. You hope you’re not offending him by asking. 

Satan looks up at you, some fragile sort of confusion in his eyes. A second later, he looks away, nodding. You think it might be some sort of breakthrough. Maybe. With his personality, it’s kind of hard to tell. You can only hope that you said something right. 

With Satan absorbed in the drama once again, you do something that might not be your wisest move. 

You place one hand on his shoulder, lightly rubbing over his shirt.

Instantly, Satan freezes up, tensing under the touch. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays very, very still. 

Eventually, he lets out a long, slow breath. His shoulders droop, finally relaxing into something almost normal. When you think about it, he probably needed the contact very, very badly, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Not many people touch a fighter gently. Not many people would have given him a chance. You think, in a way, that he seems happier for it. 


	5. Pet Au!Leviathan/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi!! I'm back at it again with a consistent and really quick update!! O3O I'm having soooo much fun with these~~ This chapter is a sad one, with a big ol' warning for offscreen character death, so read carefully if that bugs you. It's not graphic, but definitely really ouchie. As always, the request for this chapter is below! Thank you to everyone for reading, and extra thank you to those who send in requests!!
> 
> "I have a request for pet AU Leviathan! Reader is a fellow pet demon that's always trying to be friends with him by being REALLY good at their work and always doing Levi's jobs for him when the master isn't around, but they have a pronounced attitude problem and acts very cranky even around their master until it comes up that they're going to be killed for their behaviour."

You’re always nice to him. Leviathan’s life kind of sucks, in all honesty, but at least  _ you’re  _ nice. As a demon, he’s on the bottom of society whether he likes it or not. He’s one of the lucky ones who have a home instead of rotting in a cage in some kennel or shelter, so he guesses that he should consider himself to not have everything be all bad. 

That doesn’t make him any less miserable. 

He’s, technically speaking, a house pet-type. As in, he has no specific training for any particular thing. Just a whole lot of behavioral training and making sure that he knows how to be small and submissive and good. 

His current owner expects him to be some kind of companion, though, forcing housework onto him even when he has no idea what he’s doing, then getting angry and beating him to a pulp when he inevitably fails. They probably wanted a companion, but got him because it was cheaper. 

So yeah, a cheap rip-off is the status of Leviathan’s life. The only real upside to, well,  _ anything  _ is the other demon that was brought in a few months ago. You. You’re a semi-trained companion-type straddling the line between that and house pet. You know what you’re doing a lot better than he does. Leviathan was honestly expecting you to be kind of a bitch, going in. Or at least the type to take all of the attention and praise just because everyone knows that you’re better. No matter how hard he tries. 

Instead, kind of the opposite happened. You latched onto him from day one. As soon as the two of you were alone for the first time, you were grinning at him, talking at a volume that really wasn’t safe for either of you and gushing about how excited you were to be in a home with another demon for once. About how happy you were to have a friend. 

At first, he’d questioned the ‘for once’ part, thinking it sounded a lot like you’d had quite a few homes in your assumedly short life. 

But that questioning had quickly been replaced by something entirely different. You were just. Persistently  _ nice.  _ Instead of hogging the spotlight, you did every job you had quickly and well... then moved right on to doing his work too. If you could get to something quicker and no one was around to notice what you were doing, every time, you’d go out of your way to help his sorry self out. It didn’t make a bit of sense. None whatsoever. 

When he snapped at you for getting in the way, for  _ surely  _ plotting something, all you’d said was that you liked him. That you thought he was a good person and deserved the help. That you just wanted to see him smile. 

Dying inside more than a little bit, Leviathan hadn’t protested. 

It’s unusual for demons who don’t know each other under prior circumstances to be so friendly. You kept acting like you were from the same breeder or something, which was just plain weird... but not entirely unwelcome. Levi had gotten hooked on your kindness embarrassingly fast. 

But very quickly, a problem had become apparent. For everything good you did, for your impressive skill at taking on chores and housework and everything else the both of you were supposed to do--

You had an attitude problem. A big one. 

“I’m working as fast as I can! Leave me alone!”

Leviathan had almost choked when you’d talked to the owner like that. From the look of things, the owner almost had too. 

You got beaten black and blue for snapping back, because there’s really no other way that could have ended, but you didn’t quit. Even bloody, you’d kept on smiling at Leviathan, insistent that you’d be just fine. 

But then, it had continued. Every time you got irritated, which was a lot more often than was  _ safe,  _ you’d snap at whoever was in your way. Your attitude was sharp, scathing, and dangerous. You’d lash out at everyone from your master to other humans-- sometimes even other demons you were made to interact with. The only person you treated with regular kindness was Leviathan himself, and he couldn’t figure out  _ why.  _

You were punished a lot. So much that Leviathan couldn’t understand why you didn’t  _ learn.  _ Or why you weren’t dead already. His only guess as to why the owner even kept you was that he didn’t want to lose money. You were decently well-bred, and pawning you off would lose him some cash. 

“Shut up already! I’m doing my best.”

“Wow, more work? Really piling on the slave labor, huh?”

“Of course it took this long. I’m a demon, not a miracle-worker. If you’re going to give me so much to do, at least have some patience!”

Every time something so  _ stupid  _ came out of your mouth, Leviathan couldn’t help but cringe. The incidents were getting closer ad closer together. It was like you couldn’t keep your mouth shut for anything. More often than not, you were in some state of injured; limping, black-eyed, bruised literally blue. You had to be in pain, but you didn’t  _ stop.  _

It was stupid. It was beyond stupid. You had to have some kind of problem, because no matter what, you wouldn’t keep your mouth shut. You always had something to snap back with, always some grouchy attitude that did nothing but get you in trouble with anyone that heard it. 

“I’m fine, Levi,” you’d always said, running your fingers through his hair and smiling like it really would be okay. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I can take a little bit of punishment from a stupid human, no problem.”

For a while, he thought you could. The owner didn’t appear to want to get rid of you, give you to someone else, and with your body being bigger and stronger than his, it did seem like you did a pretty good job of taking the abuse. Leviathan almost let himself think that everything would be okay. 

And then, the inevitable happens. 

Shouting. Always, always shouting. You’d been assigned to do the dishes, and this time, Leviathan had heard a  _ crash,  _ followed by yelling and sharp yelps in your voice. You’d either slipped up and dropped a dish, or thrown it down yourself just to make a point. Somehow, Leviathan fully expects it to have been the latter. It seems like something you’d do. It seems like just another normal moment in life by your side. 

But-- This time-- This time the owner comes out of the kitchen dragging you by your hair. You’re moving with them-- you kind of have to--, but there’s a stormy look painted on their face, and Leviathan immediately gets the feeling that something is about to be very, very wrong. 

“You,” the owner spits, shoving you to the floor roughly, “get one more night. That’s it. I’m  _ done.  _ Say your goodbyes to your friend, because I’m not tolerating this any longer.”

With that, they leave the room in a furious huff, leaving you and Leviathan together; him cowering by the nearest piece of furniture to try to avoid the worst of the situation and you dripping red onto the carpet from a fresh bloody nose, no doubt inflicted by the owner just then. 

“What’s going on...?” he chokes out as soon as he can find his voice. “‘One more night’...? What does that mean?”

There’s dread filling Leviathan’s stomach like cold water, like tar. 

You growl, shoulders hunching up. 

“It means... It means that I’m gonna die tomorrow. Or so the old bastard says. ‘Enough of my attitude’, apparently. They say that I’m getting put down tomorrow before I can do anything bad again.”

It feels like time slows to a crawl. It can’t be true. You’re his only friend, the only person who’s ever treated him like anything important.

You’re the one who takes the blame for turning the TV onto some captivating anime while you work. You’re the one who lays beside him at night, keeping him warm with your back pressed to his. You’re the one who makes sure that all of his chores come out right. You take all of the blame and bad things so Leviathan never gets hurt. 

You’re his  _ friend.  _

“Y-You gotta be joking--?”

“It’s fine,” you smile, even though it looks a little too thin. “They aren’t serious. You’ll see. Tomorrow will come and go and I’ll be right here next to you. No worries, Levi.”

Hauling yourself up, you crawl over to Leviathan, pressing a kiss to his hair. Affectionate. The only person who’s ever wanted to be. 

Leviathan can’t bear to spend another moment that day away from you. You say it’s not true, you say everything will be just fine, but it makes too much sense. No matter how hard Leviathan tries to convince himself that you’re right and that you’ll still be here tomorrow, the feeling of dread won’t stop filling up his lungs and chilling him to the bone. 

That night, he curls up to your chest, snuggling into your shoulder for the first time in a long while. You hug him. You bury your face in his hair and all but purr. Leviathan doesn’t know how he could live without this. You’re his only hope. The tears start slipping out before he can stop it. 

The next morning. You aren’t there anymore. Leviathan tries to force himself to think that you’re just up and working on your chores, that he’ll go out into the kitchen and see you cooking breakfast for the owner just like usual. You said that everything would be okay. He has to see you again. He  _ has  _ to. There’s no way that someone like you could really die. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Everything will work out just like you said. You didn’t lie to him. Somehow, somehow, you’ll still be there right by his side. 

Just when he’s about to get up and try to find you Leviathan hears a gunshot from the direction of the backyard. It’s sudden and sharp, and abruptly, horribly, Leviathan knows that you were wrong. 


	6. Pet Au!Asmodeus/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early-morning (5:30 AM) update because I can't sleeeep~ This is a fluffy one with just a hint of pure, delicious angst :3c I swear it's mostly cute and happy, though! Asmo has a few thoughts about past rape, but nothing bad happens at all. Just cuddles and trust and loves~ As always, the request for this chapter is below!
> 
> "Can I request a Pet Au scenario where a kind reader used to have a lot of nightmares until they figured out that sleeping with someone, not sexually, helped? So they started just sleeping/cuddling with their pet (Asmo maybe?) and after a while Asmo (or someone else) is finally getting used to it? No smut just fluff and maybe angst."

For the first time, Asmodeus has a stable home. Well, as stable as being owned really  _ can  _ get. He’s been purchased, at least, officially bought instead of passed around for smaller sums and always returned to the same place in the end. At least this time, he’s with the same person for a while.

And-- it’s nice. You feed him. You give him a nice little nest of blankets on the floor of your room instead of making him sleep on hard ground. You pat his head sometimes and let him sit by your feet when you’re idle.

The weird part is that you haven’t used him yet. 

Asmodeus is under no false impressions as to what he’s good for. He’s always wound up in the same situation eventually, and that situation is warming someone’s bed-- a hole to fuck or the other way around. It never really matters. In the end, someone wants his body and there’s very little that he can say or do about it but smile and pretend like it’s good. 

The physical contact does feel nice most of the time. Most of the time. The rest of the time, he just feels uncomfortable, scared, and vaguely used. 

But that’s what humans do. He’s got a pretty face. He’s not too tall. He doesn’t have any particular training in anything, and by now, sex is the only thing he’s really good at. It only makes  _ sense  _ that that’s how it goes. 

What’s getting weird is that you don’t seem to realize that. Asmodeus doesn’t know if you’re just biding your time or if no one bothered to tell you, but you act like you’re not aware of what his purpose is. You let him lay around, spending more time than not curled up in what amounts to his bed. You don’t expect anything from him but company. There are few rules, no punishments, just-- living. Not a sexual advance in sight. 

“Come here,” you say. After work, you’re always affectionate. You always say that Asmodeus is the best stress-relief you’ve ever had. 

Somehow, the implications of that never fall into place. 

Asmodeus settles in by the couch, his head in your lap. He’s too big to fit up on the couch with you, but you keep him close nonetheless. You never seem to care when he can’t do good enough for you.

Your hand goes to his hair; petting his head like he really is a treasured pet instead of a living sex toy. Asmodeus feels vaguely sick. Even leaning into your hand, he can’t stop thinking about how this is bound to end. How all he’s doing is waiting for it to start all over again. 

But. The petting feels nice.  _ Way  _ too nice. For all the physical contact he’s used to getting, no one was really ever very kind about it. Your hand is always gentle, stroking his hair instead of pulling it, never forcing his head back or slamming it into anything. Your touch is soft, and as much as he knows how dangerous it is, Asmodeus can never stop wanting  _ more.  _ More touch. More love. More kindness. More of the one person who matters. 

He knows how pathetic it is, how stupid. He can’t  _ stop.  _

“Your hair is so soft,” you comment, as if you aren’t the one to wash it every other day. As if it’s anything that he deserves to be praised for. 

“Thank you, owner,” Asmodeus replies almost robotically, fighting the urge to hide his face against your thigh. You let him talk, which is usually a good thing, but it also means that he has to remember to get the right words out. With anyone else, tripping up would mean getting very, very hurt. With you, any mistakes go completely ignored. 

It’s easy to drift off like this. Between the gentle contact and the human heat emanating off of you, Asmodeus quickly feels himself getting drowsy. He wants to go back to his bed and curl up, wrapping the blankets you allow him to have around himself and cuddling into the softness until he can’t think of a single thing that hurts. Until he’s buried in the smell of you. Asmodeus doesn’t know when that particular bit became comforting, but it is. It’s far more so than he really wants to think about at this point. 

Your fingers wander to the base of one horn before long. Asmodeus shivers, resisting the urge to twitch away. Just your fingertips stroking over where the skin parts around the base of it feels good. Way too good. When you start massaging at the area, gentle pressure making him involuntarily lean his head into the touch, Asmodeus is caught between loving the contact and cursing that you know this easily how to make him melt. 

He wants to crawl into your lap and cling on tight enough that nothing can ever hurt again. He wants more touch-- more, more  _ more.  _ But contact only means  _ that  _ in the end, and with you-- he doesn’t think he could take it. 

Your affection makes him feel alive. Being able to just.  _ Stay.  _ Is more than he ever could have asked for. Every time this happens, the same awful thoughts start catching him, but you have to, you  _ have  _ to want that in the end. You have to be like everyone else when it comes down to it.

His wings are fluttering all on their own, fanning out and all but inviting your touch. It would feel good if you were gentle. You’re probably the only person Asmodeus would trust to  _ be  _ gentle. He needs you to touch him there just as much as he can’t stand the idea of it. His skin aches and tingles everywhere that your warmth isn’t, that your hands aren’t on. 

“Hey, Asmo?” you ask after quite a while of petting him. “Would you mind sleeping in my bed tonight?”

And there it is. 

There’s no way he can say no. You’re finally doing exactly what he’s been waiting for. Whether you’re going to want his hands, his mouth, or his dick-- it doesn’t matter. You’re finally going to use him. 

The idea is both exhilarating and terrifying down to his core. That much contact. That much touch. You’d be so  _ gentle.  _ It might actually feel good. Even so, the very prospect of returning to those things is terrifying. 

“Of course, owner.” He puts on a smile because how can he  _ not?  _ Looking unenthusiastic is just going to get him in trouble. 

You’ve been so good to him so far. Ruining it now would just hurt more than anything. If he behaves how he’s supposed to, maybe moments like these, like sitting by your feet and having his hair stroked won’t come to an end quite yet. Maybe he can have this for a little bit longer. 

But as much as Asmodeus wishes this could last forever, all good things have to come to an end. You gently nudge him away before long, standing up and smiling down at him. The message couldn’t be more clear. 

It’s time. You head back to your room, going through your nightly routine. Asmodeus follows nervously, crawling into his blanket nest and staying there while you get ready for bed. He’s trying to will himself to get hard, to save even a little bit of time, but it’s not working. All that’s happening is that he’s getting shakier and shakier, body seemingly resisting the very idea of what’s about to happen. He buries his face in one of the blankets, taking in how it smells so, so much like you. 

The few minutes he has to think are torture. It’ll feel good, Asmodeus tries to tell himself. You’re gentle. You’ll probably even let him get off at the end of it. Knowing you, you’ll even be nice enough to hold him afterward, rubbing his back or running your fingers through his hair or-- or--

Any number of things that might make this somehow bearable. 

You emerge from the bathroom and sit on the bed. You give Asmodeues another smile, patting the bed beside you. Feeling like his heart might escape from his chest, Asmodeus obeys. 

“Sorry about this,” you say once he’s up there. “I hope I’m not bothering you. I get nightmares a lot, and it’s been better since you’ve been here... but, well, this time of year is always bad.” You’re still smiling, but it looks thin, waned. “I promise I won’t do anything bad to you. All I’m asking is for another person next to me, y’know?”

Your bed is soft, softer than the floor. What you’re saying doesn’t make  _ sense.  _ Asmodeus was hoping that you’d be the type of person who wouldn’t lie to him, but apparently, even that was too much to ask. 

He braces himself for the worst, for your hands to start wandering or for you to pin him down. He waits for the bad part to come. 

All that happens is that you wiggle under the covers and lay down. 

Watching you snuggle into the blankets does things to Asmodeus’s chest that he doesn’t like. Watching you bury your face against your pillow is even worse. You’re-- You’re not touching him. Following your lead seems like the only thing he can do, but a part of Asmodeus wishes that you really are telling the truth. It sounds too good to be true; that obeying could really just mean sleeping cuddled up to the person who’s so good to him. 

Hesitantly, Asmodeus, feeling extremely out of place, slides under the blankets with you. You’ll hit him if he’s doing something wrong. It might be worth the risk to find out if he really can have hope. It doesn’t make sense, but maybe you really will leave him untouched. 

As soon as he’s under the blankets, Asmodeus quickly realizes how  _ warm  _ it is. The best sleeping area he’s ever had is the blanket pile on your floor-- extravagant for his kind-- but this is  _ different.  _ He’s been on beds before, but never under these circumstances. Before, it was only to be pinned down and fucked, not allowed to situate himself under the blankets. 

Asmodeus waits hesitantly, laying as far away from you as he can get. Your eyes are closed. You already look about to fall asleep. Is his presence really that comforting to you? If it is, maybe, maybe it’s safe. 

You’re right here, warm and relaxed and visibly comfortable around him. Asmodeus thinks of sitting beside you, of your hands in his hair and stroking at his horns. He thinks of the way his wings spread for you, showing trust whether he likes it or not. You’ve never done anything but be good to him. It feels unreal, but could it really be safe? You’re not hurting him. You haven’t touched him since he got onto the bed with you. 

A few minutes pass. Nothing bad happens. 

Asmodeus  _ breaks.  _

Wriggling forward, he slots himself against your chest, curling in so his comparatively huge body is wrapped around yours. 

With his face buried in your shoulder, the smell of you is everywhere, sinking down to his lungs. You freeze up for all of a moment before relaxing into the touch. Asmodeus almost  _ whines.  _ You’re allowing it. You’re not mad at him. You’re relaxing into the touch like you really want him there. 

You hug him. You wrap your arms around as much of him as you can and  _ sigh  _ like you’ve never been more at peace. It feels like a privilege. If you’re telling the truth-- as he’s starting to believe that you are-- he gets to spend the whole night like this. A whole night, tangled up next to a warm, living being. His  _ owner.  _ Held and wanted and loved, not fucked or hurt. It’s attention plain and simple. It’s almost too much to take. 

“Thank you for believing me,” you mumble into Asmodeus’s hair. “I’d never want to hurt you. All I need is your company...” 

Your breathing has slowed. You sound drowsy. Asmodeus gets the feeling that you haven’t slept peacefully in quite a while. Praying he’ll get away with it, he snuggles closer, latching onto you as well, holding you close. He’s hugging someone. He’s holding you. 

If he could, Asmodeus thinks he’d be purring. He’s warm all over from the heat of you, tingly all over from the contact. Waking up to this later is going to be a kind of pleasure he never thought was possible. 


	7. Pet Au!Mammon/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, now we're looking at my _usual_ update schedule. XD Meaning... I'm usually pretty slow. Bipolar and PMS kicked in, I had one nasty couple of weeks, brain-wise, etc etc etc. I'm better now, though, and hopefully this and my other fics will all see more updates soon!! As usual, the request for this chapter is below~
> 
> "If you have time, would it be possible to request a Pet AU with Mammon? His current owner gets fed up with his disobedience and throws him on the street, and our lovely reader finds him and takes him home?"

As much as Mammon knows that he should keep his mouth shut, thinking it and doing it are two very different things. As the humans around him have been saying for as long as he can remember, he might be stupid. 

He _wants_ to be good, he really does. He was lucky enough to get a home in the first place, so making sure he keeps it is the best thing he can do for himself. His owner is a big, strong man who likes to grab Mammon by the hair and drag him around. His owner knows how to get his hands on Mammon’s wings and twist in just the right way to have him screeching. His owner always claims to be as good as a god in Mammon’s life. 

And the same rebellious streak that’s plagued Mammon since he was small keeps kicking in at every bad time possible. 

It’s really not Mammon’s fault, either! He gets bullied and beaten so bad, it makes perfect sense that he’d be a little feisty in return. And it’s not like he does anything _bad._ Just a few stupid tricks to break even. 

“Get in there! Fucking _useless_ demon!”

Once again, Mammon’s owner has a hand in his hair, shoving him into his cage roughly enough that a chunk of white gets torn out along the way. 

“Goddamnit, you’re going to regret stealing from me! Stay in there until you learn your lesson! I don’t care if it’s a _month!”_ his owner bellows, slamming one hand against the side of the chest-height cage that was special-ordered just for shoving Mammon into when he’s bad. 

“Shut up! I was only tryin’ to eat!” Mammon growls right back, bluffing through his terror with harsh words. It wasn’t even anything bad this time! He hadn’t taken anything sparkly or valuable-- just a container of leftovers from the fridge that he kind of needed because _someone_ had decided that Mammon hadn’t been good enough recently to eat. He knows he’s going to get beaten when he gets out of there. He can only hope that his owner will prefer keeping him in his cage to breaking bones this time.

A look of pure rage falls over his owner’s face. Mammon is suddenly aware that he may have crossed a line that he really shouldn’t have. He wants to slap a hand over his mouth and cower, but that wouldn’t fix it now.

From there, things happen that Mammon doesn’t want to look back on. His owner drags him out of his cage, decks him across the face hard enough that even a demon’s pain tolerance doesn’t do much good. He gets a hand around one of Mammon’s horns, holding him in place while he hits over and over and over again, eventually deciding to grab at Mammon’s wings instead, wrenching them behind his back at an agonizing angle.

It’s a beating plain and simple. Worse than usual, sure-- the kind that’ll leave Mammon sporting nasty bruises and broken-open skin for weeks to come, but nothing that he’s not used to. The only part that stands out is that his owner stomps on his wrist hard enough for it to _crack._

In the end, Mammon spends the rest of the night in his cage, clutching his injured hand to his chest and trying not to cry. He hurts all over, and it really, really isn’t anything new. He should know better by now. 

. . . 

As soon as morning comes, Mammon is woken up to the door of his cage being slammed open. Before his vision is even cleared from sleep, he’s grabbed by his collar, forced out into the open, and pulled all the way to the garage with enough roughness that he feels like he’s choking. 

“Get in the car,” his owner orders, voice chillingly cold instead of viciously angry like Mammon’s used to by now. Something is _wrong._

But there’s still dried blood on Mammon’s face, and he’s not exactly inclined to disobey. He climbs into the backseat willingly, keeping his wings close to his body so no one can get in another cheap shot. 

It’s a long drive. Mammon keeps his head down and tries to be good. He doesn’t want to think about where his owner is taking him. He’s downright scared to think about that. The man drives silently, roughly, taking corners just fast enough that’s starting to make Mammon motion sick. It feels like over half an hour before the car finally pulls to a stop. 

The door to the backseat opens. Mammon is once again grabbed by the collar and forced out of the car. This time, when his owner shoves him to the ground, it’s to unclip his collar, force his face to the ground suddenly enough that Mammon gets gravel in his mouth, and turn to walk away. 

What’s happening clicks with a sudden, awful sense of dread. 

“W-Wait--” Mammon chokes, crawling forward as quickly as he can on a broken wrist. “Wait, d-don’t le-- leave me, _please--”_ Fuck whatever pride he has left; being abandoned is a thousand times worse. “I won’t fu-fuck up again, I-- I s-swear, okay--? I-I’ll be go-good, just don’t _leave.”_

He catches up to his owner, trying to clutch at the man’s pant leg. All he gets is a kick to the jaw for the trouble, followed by one more to his midsection to keep him down. Winded, there’s nothing Mammon can do as he watches his owner climb into his car and drive away. He’s left on the sidewalk, bruised and bloody and _praying_ that the man will come back. 

Somehow, even Mammon isn’t stupid enough to believe that it could happen. There’s no way anyone would come back for him.

. . . 

Mammon stays on that street corner for a while. He stays there through the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the day, until the sun is going down and the world is turning dark. No one comes for him. His owner doesn’t come back. Mammon tries to wait patiently, but every passing moment is making him all the more scared. He’s been _abandoned._

Nothing good happens to the demons bad enough for that. 

So Mammon sits with his back to the closest building, wings pulled in and body curled up in a little ball-- as little as he can get it. 

It’s an area of town so isolated that only a couple of people pass by. They all look at Mammon with gazes that range from pitying to open disdain, but no one stops. No one so much as tries to talk to him.

It feels like the longest day of Mammon’s life. The whole time, he’s on the verge of hyperventilating, praying that if he stays right where he is and doesn’t cause any trouble, his owner might let him come back. His broken wrist aches viciously, stress preventing his natural healing from kicking in. He knows he’s getting sunburnt. He’s almost painfully hungry, but so nauseous that that kind of thing seems altogether irrelevant. 

But eventually, the sun goes down. Mammon is left in the dark, huddled on a street corner and more alone than he’s been in his life. 

Around the time he starts thinking of his cage with longing, Mammon knows he’s screwed. No one’s coming back. He really is stuck here, and in all reality, that kind of thing means that he’s as good as dead. 

Sometime a while after it gets dark, it starts to rain. The downpour feels like adding insult to injury. Mammon is soon soaked and _cold,_ which really just serves to make everything worse. There’s nowhere he can hide without moving from the corner. He probably _should_ move, but some stupid part of him is insisting that he has to stay right there until he’s taken back. 

At some point, Mammon starts sniffling. He’s not crying, not exactly, but dry little sobs keep tearing through his chest no matter how hard he tries to stop them. It feels pathetic. He probably is pathetic, but there’s no much he can do to change that at this point. 

But then, someone passes by. It’s a human, holding an umbrella and walking at a fairly quick pace. Mammon’s chest tightens with some foolish bit of hope. He knows you won’t even look, but still--

You get closer. Mammon looks up at you with an expression that he hopes isn’t too pitiful. It won’t happen, he tries to tell himself, no one’s going to stop for him. He’s sitting on a fucking street corner. It’s obvious that he’s there for a reason. You’ll know better than to waste your time. 

When you reach him, finally close enough to make him out, you stop.

“Um...” you say, staring at Mammon with wide, frozen eyes. You look like you don’t quite know what to do. Then, you crouch down in front of him.

“Why are you out here? Did you get lost?” Your tone switches to something so kind that Mammon’s chest clenches. You meet his gaze, and Mammon suppresses the urge to look away. He was never supposed to look his old owner in the eyes. “It’s alright to answer me, hon. I won’t get mad.”

“Y-Yeah...” Mammon croaks, hating how weak his voice sounds. “L-Lost. That’s it...” He can’t help but feel like it’s an obvious lie. 

Even so, Mammon’s heart is pounding. He can barely breathe. This is the closest he’s been to a human other than his owner-- his _former_ owner-- in longer than he can remember, and you’re not even trying to hit him. 

“Okay.” Your eyes soften. “How about you come back home with me, then? Just until we find your home, okay? It’ll be better than being stuck out here all by yourself.” Mammon can barely believe what he’s hearing. It should be fucking obvious that he’s been kicked out, that he’s _bad,_ but here you are, offering to take him home with you like it’s that easy. 

He nods desperately fast. He probably looks like an idiot, but at this point, he doesn’t really care. At least he won’t be by himself for any longer. 

You help him up, taking his good hand in your much smaller one, Mammon shivering at the contact. You hand him your umbrella next, which makes Mammon freeze for a whole lot of reasons. 

“You’re taller, so you can hold it over both of us,” you smile. “And anyway, I don’t mind getting a little wet.”

Obediently, Mammon walks by your side. You obviously want him standing, and even though that feels all kinds of weird, he doesn’t disobey. You probably just don’t want getting home to take too long. That’s it. Yeah. You’re just trying to save time and making sure he doesn’t waste yours. 

The walk isn’t long, but Mammon’s aching body still doesn’t like it. Your home is a modest one, sandwiched between a couple of larger buildings with just a small yard to one side. After unlocking the door, you gesture for Mammon to enter first, still smiling at him in that weird way.

Once inside, Mammon is somewhere between relieved and a thousand times more uncomfortable. He feels too big, too awkward. He’s obviously dripping water on your floor, which you are too, but it’s somehow _worse_ when it’s him. He’s honestly expecting you to take your kind offer back at any second and punt him right back out on the streets. It would make more sense than whatever the fuck you’re doing for him right now. 

“Let’s get you dried off...” you say softly, once again taking Mammon’s good hand and guiding him after you. You take him through the house, back to a bathroom where you dig out a couple of extremely fluffy-looking towels. “Alright. You can just dry off if you want to, or you can have a bath. You look cold, so I’d recommend the latter. Nice and warm, right?” 

He doesn’t know. Most ‘baths’ back where he’s from involve a cold hose and a scrub brush. He swallows, looking at you nervously. Warm sounds nice, really nice, but it’s not like he knows how to use this stuff. 

“I-I-- I d-don’t...” he gets out, words suddenly finding themselves stuck in his throat. It’s humiliating. Downright humiliating. 

“Do you not want to, or do you just not know what to do?” you ask patiently. Mammon shivers. You’re being too nice. This isn’t fair.

“The s-second one,” he manages, looking away. 

“Okay, no problem. Then... is it okay if I help you? I think you’d feel a lot better if you got warmed up.” Your tone is so _gentle._ It’s nothing like he’s used to. Mammon can feel himself going flushed. 

He nods nervously, trying not to meet your eyes. 

But instead of finding something to get mad about, all you do is turn on the water in the combined shower-bathtub. Mammon stands there, huddled, as steam starts to turn the room warm. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to this. You’re just. Volunteering. Outright offering to let him have something that he’s pretty sure demons aren’t supposed to get at all. It’s confusing, frightening, and he’s left with no idea what to do. 

When the tub is mostly full, you look back at Mammon, running your fingers through the water testingly. “Here you go. It shouldn’t be too hot for you, but tell me if it is, okay? After being out in that rain for so long, I figured you’d like it warm. Can you get those clothes off for me?”

Mammon doesn’t dare to question it. He _is_ feeling pretty close to freezing, and whatever risks there are in you offering so much, he thinks that the reward of getting warm again might be worth it. 

Although, no one’s ever said he’s much good at thinking. 

The ratty shirt and pants that his old owner left him in go off in seconds, leaving Mammon nervously eying the tub. After only a moment of looking at your inviting smile, he dares to try to get in. 

Instantly, warmth seeps through him like a wave. From his feet up, every part of him that goes under the water feels blessedly hot. His aching wings going under the heat actually draws a soft noise from his throat. The bathtub is sort of too small for him, sure, but that barely matters now. 

“Good?” you ask, standing over him with a smile. Mammon tears himself out of the bliss for long enough to answer. 

“Y-Yeah. Really good... Um, thank you...?” He’s not sure if that’s quite the right thing to say. Groveling at your feet seems more appropriate, but you’ve given no impression of wanting that, so Mammon tries to pretend like he knows better. Like he knows what he’s doing at all. 

After a minute or two of just letting him soak in the heat, you go for a bottle of shampoo from the counter. All Mammon can do is stare at you incredulously. How freakishly, disturbingly nice can one human get?

“I’m just going to wash your hair. Nothing will hurt, so stay still, please. I don’t want you to get soap in your eyes.”

For once in his life, Mammon is determined to obey. The first touch of your hands to his head makes him flinch. His scalp is still sort of sore from having a few chunks of hair torn out not too long ago. On top of that, he’s not too fond of the idea of anyone being able to go for his horns. 

But your hands are gentle. Weirdly gentle. You scrub through his hair with a tenderness that Mammon didn’t think humans possessed, much less were willing to direct at demons. Your little hands scratching at his scalp have him melting in minutes, leaning back into the touch before he can really think that that might count as disobeying. Every part of him is warm. He’s starting to get tired, stress and exhaustion all catching up with him at once now that he’s had the slightest chance to relax. 

At some point, you do touch his horns. It’s just enough to wash around the bases of them, but it leaves Mammon shivering nonetheless. You’re still gentle. He didn’t know that touch there could feel good, but when that touch is like that _,_ apparently it can. 

When you have him slide back and duck his hair into the water, Mammon feels a bit like he’s dying. Like that, the warmth is seeping into him all over, relaxing him enough that he can feel his wounds slowly starting to heal. Demons heal up quick, normally, but when they’re under too much stress, that natural healing factor gets stunted real bad. 

And then, it’s over. You help a very reluctant Mammon out of the tub, supporting some of his weight so he doesn’t have to lean on his bad wrist. 

“You okay with just blankets for now? I don’t have any clothes that’ll fit you, and those...” you glance down at the dirty, bloodstained fabric that made up his previous outfit, “aren’t exactly suitable. I’ll get you something in the morning, though, I promise.”

Mammon can only nod. Blankets don’t sound bad at all, especially because you don’t seem too intent on shoving him into a cage. 

A few minutes later sees Mammon settled in a blanket pile on your couch, still wonderfully warm. You’ve given him a good five blankets, all of which are bundled up around him comfortingly. Aside from the bath, it might be the best thing he’s ever felt. Right now, one of the blankets is even pulled up around his head like a hood, giving him a perfect way to hide. 

“So...” you say from where you’re sitting on the chair across from him. “What exactly brought you to that street corner? I have a pretty good guess, but I want to hear it from you before I go making any assumptions.”

Mammon flinches. Here it comes. One explanation later and he’ll be thrown right out-- or worse, some shelter will be called to take him away. 

“I-I... I was bad,” he mutters, looking down and away. “My old owner got mad at me for some stupid stuff and he threw me out. That’s it. I don’t... I don’t th-think he was gonna come back.”

Saying it feels like admitting to something horrible, but at the same time, it’s a weight off of his chest. You would have found out sooner or later, and at least this way, he won’t have to get his hopes up. The hard part will all be over nice and quick. 

“I see...” you trail off. Mammon waits for the yelling. Or the hitting. Or maybe both. He’s not really sure what your methods are yet. “Well, do you want a new home, then? I’ve never really had a demon before, but you’re welcome to stay here if you want to. I won’t force you or anything, of course. You’re welcome to stay or go-- your call.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Then, Mammon _chokes._

That can’t be right. You can’t seriously be offering to let him stay with you for no reason. You just heard that he fucked up bad enough last time that his owner kicked him out. That surely doesn’t sound like the kind of story that would make him seem appealing. 

But you’re looking at him with something disturbingly genuine, and as scared as Mammon’s spent the day being, he can’t imagine saying no. You’re basically saving his life if what you’re saying is true. 

“P-Please!” he all but shouts, curling on himself and not able to meet your eye. “I won’t fuck up again, I promise. I-- I swear I’ll be good this time!” The words fall out rapid-fire, everything Mammon was wishing he could say before he lost his home in the first place. You haven’t done anything to hurt him yet. You let him get warm. Maybe, _maybe,_ this’ll be a different story than how things were before. 


	8. Pet Au!Belphegor/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is _definitely_ more along the lines of my usual update time period XD But I am back with a fresh chapter nonetheless! I don't have much to say other than that I did take some liberties with the request, but my tumblr (please come talk to me) and the request for this chapter are below~
> 
> invertedphantasmagoria.tumblr.com
> 
> "A request for more Pet AU (You have me obsessed already) could I please get either lulu or belphy having been heavily mistreated and then just kind of dumped on the side of the road by their owners? They're so weak from the mistreatment that being out in the harsh weather (Winter could be fun) really takes it out of them. Then they get found by reader, who coaxes them into their car and takes them home, and nurses them back to full health.
> 
> Because they're so weak, they can't do anything other than accept the unnerving levels of gentle care and affection, even though the change in treatment is rather terrifying. By the time they're healed enough to move, they've become more than a little starved for their new "owners" affection."

Belphegor might be dying. It’s hard to say for sure since it’s not like he knows what dying feels like, but it seems as if some kind of end is coming. 

His old owner left him by the side of the road a good ways out into the country, beaten to the point where he could hardly get himself onto his hands and knees. That was two days ago. His natural healing should have gotten him functional by now, but being half-starved and far too stressed has his body in a state where healing just isn’t happening. 

The worst part is that it’s  _ winter.  _ Demons are designed for heat, not cold. Temperatures upwards of a hundred would be easier to deal with than even slightly below freezing. Winter is a dangerous, dangerous time to be left on his own, Belphegor knows. At first, it was just too cold for comfort. Then, the temperature kept dropping. He shivered for what felt like days, laying with his face pressed to the dirt, too aching and worn-out to move. 

By the second time the sun was dipping below the horizon, it started to snow. That’s when Belphegor knows that he’s in trouble. He’s getting colder and colder. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, and every breath of cold, dry air makes him cough viciously. He’s shivering painfully hard. 

The worst part is that he’s getting sleepy. And not like usual. It’s the kind of pull to sleep that Belphegor honestly thinks means he might never wake up from it. As much as he hurts, passing away in his sleep doesn’t sound too bad right now. It would be far better than being hit by a car or something once one eventually comes along. Or beaten to death. That’s always been a threat that he hated the very sound of. 

As if the thought itself jinxed it, Belphegor sees headlights in the distance, shining through the increasingly thickening snow. 

He sighs. With any luck, whoever it is won’t run him over. They’ll probably just ignore him. Anyone seeing a demon left by the roadside would unless they wanted him for a fighting ring or body parts or something equally awful. There’s no telling what it’ll be. Being ignored would be better. 

But as the car gets closer, it slowly pulls to a stop. 

Belphegor shudders, teeth clattering from the cold, and something like fear. His tail curls in closer, almost protectively. Like it would do any good. He keeps his eyes fixed on the car, waiting for the worst. 

You get out, squinting through the snowfall like you’re trying to make out exactly what you stopped for. It’s pitch-black out, only a half-moon shining through the white, so it’s no surprise. You take a few steps closer, Belphegor flinching despite himself-- well, as much as his beaten body can. 

You’re close enough that he can see the way your face changes when you make out what he is. Over six feet of demon, wearing only an oversized tunic sort of shirt and rough shorts, beaten and bloody, unable to move, body instinctively trying to hide from you, even though you both know it won’t get him anywhere. It has to be pathetic. Belphegor doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now, but you have to be taking it in. 

“Oh... what happened here...?” you voice in a whisper, more to yourself than anything. The next thing Belphegor knows, you’re kneeling down next to him, close enough that he can all but feel your warmth. 

Instantly, Belphegor bristles. He can feel the fur on his tail fanning out-- a pitiful attempt to make himself look bigger in the hopes that you won’t hurt him. Hoping won’t get him anywhere, he thinks bitterly. You’re going to do exactly what you want no matter what he tries. 

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask, leaning down a bit. “I mean, can you move? What happened?” Your hands flitter anxiously like you’re debating whether or not to try to touch him. It’s a disturbing thought, but not answering would be disrespectful. He doesn’t have a choice but to obey, doesn’t have a choice but to do what you say and hope his organs don’t wind up in little glass jars by the end of this awful night. 

“I-I--” Belphegor chokes, voice cracked from thirst and disuse. “I w-was left here. Tha, Th-That’s all there is to it.” 

Your expression changes. Something cold falls over your eyes. 

“Can you get up?”

“P-Possibly...” It really is debatable. His body isn’t too badly broken, but hauling himself up onto even hands and knees feels like a bit too much of a challenge. Even so, all he can do is try to follow your orders. 

It’s tough, but somehow, he manages to get himself properly kneeling. Everything hurts. Belphegor is roughed up enough that just  _ sitting  _ hurts. There’s no fresh blood, but he’s got scabs, deep, awful bruises, and what he’d be willing to guess are a few fresh fractures, right on top of the old ones that never got a chance to heal how they really should have. 

All the while, you’re looking at him with nothing but worry. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. Humans paying too much attention to a demon is never a good thing. Belphegor can remember when he was young, when he thought that a human might someday look at him like he was wanted. He’s figured out by now that those kinds of things don’t happen to anyone, least of all lazy demons with tempers too bad for their own good. 

“Will... Will you please come with me?” you ask almost hesitantly. Belphegor immediately fears the worst. You sound so careful and kind, but-- there’s no way that it could be true. You’re plotting something. 

“Yeah...” he says, because what choice does he really have? 

It’s either get into some strange human’s car and pray that he doesn’t wind up dissected or freeze to death by the side of the road. Or wait for a car to hit him. That’s an option too. And not a particularly pleasant one. With you, he should at least make it through tonight and the snow. 

So he crawls the short distance over to your car. You hold the door open for him and let him ease his aching body inside. Then, you get in the driver’s seat and start the car... and turn the heat up as you do.

That makes Belphegor swallow heavily. You did that on purpose. You did that because you know he’s cold. There’s no other explanation for it, and that’s bordering on nerve-wracking. The sheer fact that you’re paying so much attention to him makes Belphegor viscerally uncomfortable. 

But the car is warm and the fabric-covered seat under him is softer than anything Belphegor’s laid on in months, and before he knows it, his usual bad habit is getting the better of him. He’s  _ tired,  _ exhausted down to his core, and falling asleep to the lull of a moving vehicle and warm air all around him doesn’t sound bad at all. It’s probably not the smartest choice, but as worn-out as he is, just sleeping until you reach your destination shouldn’t hurt. Just... just a little rest. Only until you get there. 

. . . 

The next thing Belphegor knows, he’s opening his eyes to the sound of the car door being opened. You’re looking in with an expression of worry, but something almost fond. He shivers, forcing himself to wake up. This isn’t a time to stay drowsy and out of it. He needs to pay attention and make sure that he doesn’t somehow manage to fuck this up. 

“We’re at my house,” you say very gently, like you’re talking to a stray cat instead of a demon with over a foot of height on you. “I’d like you to come inside if that’s okay? You can stay here until you’re warmed up again.”

Belphegor avoids your gaze. He eases himself out of the car, back onto his hands and knees, moving where you direct him. 

The next thing he knows, he’s inside somewhere even warmer. Your home, judging from the size of the living room, isn’t too large, but the heated air is mercy on Belphegor’s aching lungs and stiff fingers. It looks comfortable; nothing like the harsh living space that his former owner had. 

Even more attention-grabbing is the fireplace at the far wall. 

“You’re welcome to sit over there,” you comment. Belphegor flinches a bit, hating how obvious he must have been. How pathetic he must look to you right now. “Let me get you a blanket. I’ll be right back, okay?”

But he nods, crawling over to the electric fireplace in favor of putting up any resistance. The heat is incredible, soothing against his skin and making every tense muscle unwind. Belphegor sits as close to the grate as he can get. It would be too warm for a human that close, but demons are built for the heat, and Belphegor knows that his body needs the warmth right now. Getting himself back to a better temperature will help him heal. 

He gets to sit there for a long couple of minutes before you come back, a dark purple, ridiculously fluffy-looking blanket in hand. 

“It’s minky,” you inform when you lean down to wrap it around Belphegor’s shoulders. “The fabric, I mean. Rosebud minky. Probably the softest thing I’ve ever felt, so I hope you like it.” The smile you’re giving him is warmer than the fireplace. The feeling of insanely soft fabric against his skin is making his skin crawl. It’s too good. You’re being too nice. 

For a while, you vanish again. Belphegor tugs the blanket in around him before he really thinks about what he’s doing, about how pathetic he’s being. He’s still chilled down to the bone, and bundling himself up in the softest thing he’s ever touched is a difficult temptation to resist. 

And then, when it feels like he’s only closed his eyes for a few seconds, you’re back again, holding out a mug of something steaming. 

Belphegor takes it on instinct-- not just because he doesn’t want to disobey. Instantly, the heat from the mug seeps into his hands, pure relief against the fingers that he could barely feel not too long ago. It’s hot chocolate. You gave him a mug of hot chocolate, warm enough that steam is coming off of it, and a deep, rich shade that means it has to be indulgently sweet. Belphegor looks down at the mug for a moment or two, trying to process what’s happening. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. 

“It’s for you, so you can drink it,” you say, giving just enough of an order that it almost feels safe. “Oh, and if it’s too sweet or starts to make you feel sick, tell me. I can get you something else instead.”

Obediently, Belphegor takes a sip. Instantly, his tongue is flooded with sweetness. The flavor is unlike anything he’s been allowed before, and he’s taking a gulp before he can stop himself. This is the first time he’s eaten in probably four days. There’s no way he could hold back.

“I-It’s good...” Belphegor mumbles before he really realizes what he’s saying. Even when his cheeks flush at the admission, he ignores it in favor of downing the entire mug in a few massive swallows. 

You just sit there, watching like you’re pleased. It’s sort of uncomfortable, but considering what you’ve just given him, Belphegor doesn’t have much room to complain. You honestly look like you’re happy; a strange thing indeed to be directed at him. Belphegor is a lot more used to humans looking at him like they want to beat the shit out of him for the crime of existing and not being an obedient little slave to their every whim. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” you say when he’s done, taking the mug. “You can sleep down here if you want to, or I can let you have the guest room. I’d be happy to leave the fireplace on all night, so I imagine that this’ll be your choice?” You say it so  _ gently.  _ Belphegor is left shivering. 

He still hurts all over, but he’s finally something resembling warm. You don’t appear to be getting ready to put his organs in jars. You haven’t shown a single sign of being anything but perfectly nice and trying to help. 

“Yeah... I’ll stay here.”

“Okay, that works. Lemme go get you some more blankets, since you’ll be sleeping on the floor and all.” You give another warm grin. 

Belphegor stays where he is, curled up under the first blanket and trying to remember how to breathe properly. This is  _ weird.  _ You’re treating him like he’s a person. You gave him a blanket and a place to sleep. You’re behaving nothing like any human he’s known, and it’s getting to the point where he has absolutely no idea how to react to it all. 

By the time you come back with more blankets--  _ lots  _ more blankets, all stacked up in a pile in your arms--, Belphegor has flopped over onto his side, curled up in a little ball and fighting the feeling of sleep. 

Without saying much, you lay out the blankets, letting him grab and adjust them how he pleases. Too tired to think about why he shouldn’t give in so easily, Belphegor tugs himself into a nest of heat, soft cloth everywhere against his skin. By the time he’s settled, his tail is tucked in close to his body and only his head is poking out of the mess, and even then, the ‘rosebud minky’ is right there for him to bury his face in. It’s the first time Belphegor thinks he’s felt truly comfortable in his life. 

Even once he’s settled, you’re still sitting next to him, looking on with fondness-- like you somehow find a massive demon snuggling up in your things to be cute. It’s unnerving, but not entirely unwelcome. Exhausted as he is, Belphegor doesn’t think he could find the will to complain. 

“Is it...” you start nervously. “Would it be alright if I pet you for a bit. Until you fall asleep?” 

You’re asking his  _ permission.  _ As if you couldn’t do whatever you wanted regardless of what he said. Belphegor is left with his throat feeling tight. Humans don’t ask. Humans take what they want, never let things like him have a say. He wants to snap at you, wants to tell you no, but being warm and nested up and  _ petted  _ sounds like some kind of absurd fantasy. 

“If you really have to...” he gets out with a yawn at the end. “Just... w-watch the horns.” That’s a level of vulnerability that he doesn’t even want to think about. Even as nice as you’ve been, that’s too much. 

Without another word, your fingers tentatively brush against his hair. Belphegor shivers. He’s never been pet before. The only time human hands have been near his face is when someone is beating him or grabbing his horns far too roughly. Instead, your fingers comb through his hair with what can only be called tenderness, nails dragging lightly against his scalp. Almost instantly, all the tension in him bleeds out. That’s  _ good.  _

Belphegor is aware that he’s not really thinking clearly right now, but he’s warm, he’s exhausted, and he’s only sort of feeling how much he should still be hurting. He’s drifting off to your touch before he can stop it.


	9. Pet Au!Mammon/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Time for another update!!! >:3c It's been a little while, but I'm still here and writing! I just have a LOT of projects that I'm working on... This chapter doesn't really have any warnings beyond implied abuse, and it's mostly just fluffy stuff. Nothing too serious~ I hope everyone enjoys! As usual, my tumblrs and the request for the chapter are below. 
> 
> phantasmiafxndom.tumblr.com
> 
> invertedphantasmagoria.tumblr.com
> 
> "So, I had an idea. A lot of animals can be trained to do tricks and we have various competitions and entertainment establishments based on it. There might be circuses with demons performing in this au, right? And we all know the bad reputation that circuses have with animal abuse. What if one of the brothers (probably Mammon, considering his theatrical way of speaking) performed in a circus that got shut down by animal rights protection services and they had to go to a foster for a while before they were put up for adoption? The reader would be the foster. The reader would notice that he has trouble getting accustomed to his new position. Trying to help him, they pay a little more attention to him and find out that he's a sweetheart. Knowing that nobody would adopt him because of his behavioral problems and that he would be put down, they end up keeping him instead."
> 
> Also, because I'd like to see if anyone here likes it (and because this story gets a LOT of attention), I'm going to make a little advertisement: I'm officially writing an original dating sim game now! :D It's called Nightfall, and it features eighteen damaged boys for you to romance and help (or maybe hurt~) The official tumblr a link to the game are below!!
> 
> nightfallgame.tumblr.com
> 
> dashingdon.com/go/6020

A foster home. That’s your new job. You’ve worked with demons before-- plenty of times--, but this is the first time anyone’s approached you with the idea of keeping one in your home. It’s an intimidating prospect. As someone who actually gives a shit what happens to demons and what state they’re in, the way that they’re usually treated just about makes you sick. Interacting with the heartbreaking results is always, always painful. 

But it’s either open up your home and take matters into your own hands or leaving whatever demon that’s intended to be given you to the mercy of whoever else they could be dumped on. You like to think that you’re a better option for safety than most of the world out there. 

You accept. You then spend the next couple of weeks preparing your house for having a _guest._ As in, you buy a fuckton of blankets, make a meal plan three weeks in advance, make sure that there’s a soft path on the floor that reaches every area of your house, and stock up on various supplies. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to be _ready_ for whatever kind of demon winds up with you. The only thing that you can really anticipate is that they’re going to be just as fucked-up as they ever seem to be. 

In the days leading up to meeting your new ‘friend’, you’re beyond anxious. Most of your previous interactions have been behavioral counseling or keeping a particularly troublesome demon occupied while their owner is handling something. You’ve been told that you’re excellent at keeping them calm and getting good behavior. You don’t know if you like that statement. 

And then, the day arrives. You spend the morning waiting out on your porch-- the truck drives up at around one in the afternoon. 

You walk out to greet them. The delivery driver steps out of the front seat, shakes your hand, and walks you around to the back of the truck. It’s a big one, as you’d expect. Demons are usually well over six feet in height. A good number of them clear _seven._ Even kneeling, they’re much larger than humans, which... you know how uncomfortable that makes most of them. 

“Good luck with him,” the driver tells you with a hesitant smile. Even though he’s with the people who think that demons should have ‘rights’, those definitions are _interesting_ at best. More like animals than people, really. He opens the truck’s door next, and inside...

The demon is relatively small, as far as his species go. He has darker skin, white, fluffy hair parted around thin, curling horns, and a pair of skeletal, leathery wings of which the bones are crooked enough that you can easily assume they’ve been broken before. He’s looking at you with tense, untrusting, blue-and-gold eyes, and his posture is clearly anxious. 

“Hi there,” you say in your best ‘calm down and trust me’ voice. “It’s nice to meet you. You’re going to be staying with me for a little bit, so could you tell me your name, please? It’s okay for you to talk. No punishment.”

“...Mammon,” he replies after staring at you for a moment. His voice is strained and his tone is clipped, like he’s afraid to let the wrong words out. 

“Okay, I’ll remember that. Thank you. Now... can you come out of there, please. I’d like it if you could come inside with me.” There’s a measured tone to your voice that you’ve learned how to hold-- never letting out _anything_ that could make them think you’re angry or displeased. 

With a sharp, short nod, Mammon climbs down from the truck. He kneels on the sidewalk next to you with less-than-perfect posture. A sign that he’s had issues before, you can imagine. That he’s not a ‘good’ one. 

“Be careful with that one,” the driver comments, handing you a large envelope. You don’t miss the way that every part of Mammon tenses up. “He’s been known to have some... behavioral issues in the past. The details are in the paperwork, and I imagine you’ll figure everything out soon enough. We’re hoping that you’ll be capable of working with him.”

Something about the driver’s tone irritates you. When you glance down at Mammon, his expression has shifted to something way too close to _scared._ When you put yourself in his place... the human who now owns him has just been told that he’s a troublesome one who they need to be ‘careful’ with. That could never bode well in the kinds of places he’s been before. Despite starting out trying to be good, you can guess that he feels like every chance has just been ripped right out from under his feet. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I doubt we’ll have any problems,” you reply, making yourself smile casually. “I know that he’ll do just fine.”

The driver leaves. You lead Mammon inside. He crawls with his head ducked down and his wings held close to his body. You can easily take that as a sign that he’s used to having them grabbed. Probably twisted. 

Inside the house, you have Mammon kneel on the rug in front of your chair. As much as you hate the sight of something so _human_ sitting on its haunches like an animal, you know that there’s really no getting around it. Changing things to suddenly would just make him panic. Demons have a life that they’re used to, and you can’t rip it away from them without pain. 

Mammon looks nervous; painfully so. Even though he’s trying to look perfectly well-behaved, his wings are shaking and there’s a glint of rebellion in his eyes that you can’t miss. From the look of it, he’s trying to cover up exactly why he wound up in your household in the first place. 

“Alright,” you start. “I want you to tell me where you’re from and why you’re here with me. I have your files, so I can and will read it myself, but I want to hear your side of the story first. Don’t worry about offending me or getting in trouble. This is your chance to tell me what I need to know about you, and I expect you not to hesitate.” Giving orders always feels strange, but it’s the only way you know to get the truth out of them. 

Mammon flinches. His head drops a bit, his wings curl in as if to shield his body, and he suddenly looks five times as uncomfortable as before. 

“Be yourself,” you tell him with as much softness as you can muster. “If we’re going to be together, then I need to know what I’m working with.”

“Fine,” Mammon blurts out after a long moment of silence. “You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell ya. The Great Mammon is from a circus, y’know? One of those fancy, bright places where you humans go to get entertained. I did tricks and stuff. ‘Bout what you’d expect. But the place got shut down, we all got separated up, and were supposed to be put in different homes, ya follow? I’m here because no one wanted ta’ take me.”

Immediately, you’re intrigued. When he’s actually _talking,_ Mammon has a unique speech pattern that you don’t think you’ve heard from a demon before. He’s loud, he’s theatrical, and he’s exactly what you’d expect from the position he described. And yet, even you know that circuses are known for abusing their ‘stars’. You’re starting to get an idea of things. 

“Alright, a circus, then. Now, my question is why that man said I could expect to have trouble with you. I want to hear what you have to say before I even _touch_ these.” With those words, you set the envelope containing Mammon’s files down on the table beside you, pushing it out of the way.

Mammon stares helplessly for a little bit. He eyes the envelope like it could spring forward and bite him. But finally, he opens his mouth. 

“I, um, I-I...” Suddenly, there’s not a trace of the previous bravado in his voice. “I s-steal things. Sometimes. ...enough times that p-people have gotten mad about it. It’s never anythin’ big, though! Just, j-just little sparkly things. I-I’m a demon, so, s-so I n-never get anything to myself. And the humans say that I backtalk too much, that I need to shut my _stupid fucking mouth,_ and that I ju--, j-just don’t obey right...” After that long, stuttering rant, Mammon trails off into miserable silence. 

You’re amazed at his honesty, but you can imagine that he didn’t have much of a choice. It was either tell you now or have you read the (likely _worse_ ) interpretation of his behaviors noted in his files.

Mammon looks absolutely petrified now, though. You can _see_ him shaking in more places than just his fragile-looking wings. He probably expects you to hurt him, berate him, or perhaps just send him back to wherever he came from. Watching the previous pride and confidence-- although likely forced-- fall apart into _this_ is painful to watch. 

“So we’ll work with that.”

The look that Mammon gives you resembles a that kicked dog. He doesn’t trust you for a second, but there’s this _tiny_ fragment of hope that makes you feel sorry for him and how badly he could get hurt like that. 

“What d’ya mean by that...?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I mean that I’m not getting rid of you, even over ‘behavioral issues’, so we just have to work with what problems you have. I’m a foster home. I don’t _own_ you. My job is to be a transition between where you’re from and where you’ll end up. You’re just staying with me until you find somewhere permanent.” Even though you’re trying to get to the point and not mislead him, everything you say makes Mammon’s head drop a bit more. 

Does... does he _want_ to stay with you? He’s barely known you for ten minutes, and he already looks attached. When you think about it, this is probably his first chance at a home. Being taken in only to be passed along has to sound scary to someone who’s never been in the system before. 

You can’t think about that. There’s no keeping him. Mammon isn’t yours. You’re a foster home and nothing more. You don’t want to be responsible for this kind of thing for any longer than you have to be. 

The best you can hope for is getting Mammon settled-in and moving along quickly. If he gets used to what a _normal_ home is like, you can send him on his way to someone who’ll keep him in no time. All he needs is a little bit of time to adjust, and you’ll both get your wish. He won’t have to stay with you for very long at all if things go how they should. 

. . . 

Things do not go as they should. 

Mammon has the worst mouth on him that you’ve ever heard from a demon. You don’t know what was allowed back at the circus, but he lashes out with words that would get a regular demon beaten.

Judging from the scars you’ve seen on his back and arms, you could imagine that they did much the same even where he’s from. 

He does indeed steal things. Despite _insisting_ that he’s trying his best not to, you find three pieces of your jewelry hidden around the house-- one of them being buried in Mammon’s blanket-nest of a bed. He sneaks food from the kitchen whenever you’re asleep, snatches towels from the bathroom cabinets to add to his nest, and denies it all when you catch him. 

In all reality, it’s probably a stress response. The guilty way Mammon looks at you when you catch him with something he’s not supposed to be eating makes you think he’s starved before, that he’s _had_ to steal food or risk going hungry for way too long. 

On top of that, Mammon’s attitude never really stops. He fluctuates between the same theatrical, over-the-top behaviors that you _know_ are leftover from when he was performing-- speaking in loud, grandiose tones, referring to himself as ‘the Great Mammon’ with persistent frequency, and egging you into talking to him as often as possible. And yet, just as quickly, he’ll drop into a scared, cowering, _quiet_ mess as soon as you so much as raise your voice. It’s like he can’t control himself in any regard. 

All in all, this equals a situation that’s not good at all. In a regular home... Mammon would be in constant trouble. You can only imagine what would happen if you let him loose in the system. Demon rights or not, Mammon has the kind of behavior that few people would tolerate. 

In a way, it annoys you too. You’re used to quiet subservience from demons, and Mammon’s _exact opposite_ grates on your nerves in some ways. But at the same time, he’s lively in a way that you’ve never seen from his species. It might be his history. It might just be the way he is. Either way, he’s unique in a way that you weren’t expecting at all. 

And... that leads you to a particular conclusion. 

. . . 

“Mammon, why are last night’s leftovers missing from the fridge?” You don’t really care if he eats when he needs to, but you _wanted_ those. 

Just as usual, Mammon flinches, curling in on himself just enough that you know he’s feeling guilty. Or scared you’re going to hit him. You never really know which. He looks very pointedly away from you. 

“B-Because, uh... I was hungry?” His tone turns it into a question, a hesitant remark wondering if that’s an answer that you’ll accept. 

“Don’t eat stuff without asking me.” You kneel on the ground next to his bed, where Mammon was adjusting things until you spoke up. You have the distinct feeling that something of yours has been hidden in the blankets recently. “If you’re hungry, say something. I’ll make you food. And if you’re too scared to do that, then wait for the next meal. You _know_ I’m not going to starve you. I don’t do that, do I? I don’t let you go hungry.”

Mammon’s breathing picks up a bit. His shoulders hunch up in the way that you know by now means he’s expecting something to hurt. You don’t want to do it very badly, but you do need to discipline him somehow, and in the weeks he’s been here, there is one thing you’ve been meaning to do.

“Turn around, back to me,” you order. Mammon’s eyes go very, very wide. A shudder sets in in his shoulders. You know exactly what he’s assuming-- that you’ll go for his wings the second his back is facing you--, and in a way, he’s right. “You did something you’re not supposed to, right? Well, I’ve been meaning to look over your wings since you got here, so your ‘punishment’ is that you have to sit still while I make sure that nothing is damaged back there. That the old breaks won’t cause trouble later.”

“Y-Yes, owner,” Mammon says. He’s switched right back to that side of him which means he’s terrified of what you’re going to do. Even so, he turns around obediently, offering up his shaking, curled-in wings. 

In a way, you hate doing this. You know it’s going to scare him. You know it’s probably going to hurt at least a little bit. If you’re judging the damage right, there are very few ways that your touch won’t be painful. 

Biting back your nerves, you get a gentle hold on one of Mammon’s wings. Instantly, he sucks in a tense, sharp breath. The appendage tries to pull away from your hands on what you imagine is pure instinct. He’s likely expecting you to grab, yank, or twist at parts that already ache. 

First, you test the bend of the wing, manually extending and flexing the joints with slow, careful touches. Everything moves how it’s supposed to, but the low whimper that the contact earns you makes you think that it probably hurts more than Mammon is letting on. You trace the lines of the bones with your fingers, feeling out the crooked places, and testing for anywhere that feels too damaged. There’s a worrying, _awful_ amount of old damage, but everything thankfully seems to be in working order. 

However, the longer you’re in contact with the delicate skin, the shakier Mammon gets. You don’t _think_ you’re hurting him or being too rough, but the way that his little whimpers are shifting into low, tense whines makes you worry that something is going on. Around the time that you feel out the bone near the base of one wing, making Mammon let out a soft sound that’s _definitely_ different than pain, you let up. 

“Am I hurting you?” you ask. You remove your hands from his wings altogether... but that just makes Mammon lean back into your hands enough to overbalance himself backward. He ends up toppling half into your lap. 

Mammon looks up at you with a glazed, frantic look in his dual-tone eyes. His wings flutter a bit where they’re caught under his body. 

“N-No!” he yelps. “N-Not hurtin’ at, a-at all-- It, um, it f-feels...” Trailing off, Mammon stares at you for just long enough that you see his face starting to flush. He looks away just as quickly, and... “Touch me more, p-please? It-- I-It, ah, no one’s ever been gentle before!” The last part is spat out just quickly enough that it’s obvious he’s beyond embarrassed. 

But, well. Apparently, you feeling out his wings for damage felt _good_ enough that your proud, bravado-filled demon was willing to ask for more. He’s closed his eyes now, not looking at you at all out of sheer embarrassment. Even so, he hasn’t even _tried_ to move out of your lap.

“Fine, roll over. I won’t stop. You’ve been good for letting me handle them.” As soon as you say it, Mammon rolls over to bare his back. 

You spend a while just rubbing his scarred, tanned skin. The shirt you’ve given him is low enough in the back for his wings to be free and comfortable. You have free access to stroke up and down his spine, to massage at the bases of his wings in a way that makes Mammon let out little noises that kind of break your heart. Just petting him a little bit has his whole body relaxing into a puddle-ish mess in your lap. 

Even as big as he is, Mammon looks like he’s trying to _fit_ up against you. He’s even daring to nuzzle at your thigh as you pet him. 

Before long, he starts mumbling quiet words of gratefulness. It’s the softest you’ve ever seen him, and... it’s starting to hurt to watch. The scars on Mammon’s back are raised, bumpy, painful lines, but he still sighs with pleasure when your fingers trace the ridges of them. You’re becoming acutely aware of what he’s been through, and you don’t like it. 

If you let him go, he’ll be in trouble. There’s no way that the average owner would put up with a mischievous, sneaky demon with an attitude and an apparent need for attention that borders on pathetic to see. 

Mammon’s crooked wings flutter and sway into your touch. You trace the thin, leathery skin and realize that you’ve gotten _attached._

. . . 

About a week later sees you with a small pile of paperwork on your desk, filling out lines of signatures and information that make your head spin. Mammon is curled up in a little ball against one wall of the room. He doesn’t like to be away from you. Even though all he ever seems to do is get himself in trouble, he hates not being as close to you as possible. 

At the moment, Mammon is staring at you with worry in his eyes. He glances occasionally at the papers you’re scribbling on with nervousness in his eyes. You haven’t told him what you’re doing yet. 

“Mammon,” you call eventually, getting his attention. “Come here. We need to have a talk.” 

You don’t miss the look of fear that settles over his face. 

But Mammon crawls obediently to your side. His wings hang down anxiously, his shoulders are angled in to make himself smaller, and you can see him chewing at his lip with his fangs, worrying the skin red. 

“I’m not going to be fostering you anymore,” you say, realizing a moment too late how bad that sounds. Mammon lurches where he kneels. His expression goes painfully afraid. His wings drop all the way down to his back and curl in close around him-- an obvious gesture of pure fear. He opens his mouth, probably to try to beg you not to get rid of him, but... “I’m adopting you. Officially. That’s what the paperwork is. I had it called in a couple of days ago, but I didn’t want to say anything until it was for sure.”

Mammon stares at you for a moment, finally daring to meet your eye. You don’t know how he’s going to react... right up until the tears spill over from his eyes. 

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times like he wants to say something but can’t get the words out. Then, finally; 

“I-I’ll be good, I promise,” he stutters. “I can do tricks for ya, l-like I used to. I know ya haven’t asked f-for any, but I’ll do somethin’ right! I’ll try harder, I’ll l-learn not to steal stuff. I’ll keep my mouth shut when I should. I-- I-I... Thank you... Th-Thank you, owner.” Mammon’s voice cuts off on a helpless little sob. He leans forward slowly, resting his head against your leg. 

You pet his hair and close your eyes. He’d wind up dead if you didn’t do this. No one else would give him enough of a chance to find out how sweet and vulnerable he is, but-- Can you really do this? _Owning_ something is more commitment than you wanted.

With Mammon sniffling into your pant-leg, you get the feeling that you’re making the right choice by taking him in for good. 


	10. Pet Au!Satan/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! It's been a while! >3> As usual, I haven't abandoned anything... I'm just slow, busy, and drowning in things to do. I can say that I hope updates will come quicker, but honestly, my schedule is packed. I've been trying to do more original work stuff, which is not helping matters of fanfic updates... Uhh, at least I posted something, right? XD This chapter is pretty angsty, so enjoy~ And feel free to leave new requests for whatever y'all want to see!
> 
> "May I request a PetAU for Satan? You said he was quite neurotic about perfection, so perhaps he worries a lot about keeping his anger in check around the reader? Until one day he accidentally hurts them and boy just breaks. Maybe even lashes out at the reader when they refuse to punish him for it?"
> 
> phantasmiafxndom.tumblr.com

For demons, control is essential. With size and strength that easily dwarf that of humans, there’s no room to be sloppy. If one makes a wrong move, someone could get hurt, and if someone gets hurt, that’s either punishment or a death-sentence for a demon— it’s unclear which is worse. 

Satan has had to learn that. When he was younger, he had aggression issues. His temper boiled hot and sharp under his skin, and he’d lashed out more than once when he shouldn’t have. He came so, so close to being stuck with the damning label, ‘aggressive tendencies’. Much more of that, and he’d have been all but unbuyable for the rest of whatever life he had. 

He’d managed to control himself. Just barely, but he’d managed to rein that temper in well enough that the humans ceased to notice it. 

And life had gotten better. The risk of the label had faded away. 

So Satan is now a companion type. Utilizing his natural intelligence, composure, and attentiveness, he’s in one of the more valuable classes of demons, where misfortune should be lesser. He’s with you now. He has a home where he’s not punished, food isn’t withheld, and he has everything he could ever want for. You’re grateful when he obeys and haven’t hit him yet. Your rules are simple and easy to follow, and Satan quickly adapted to them. He’s content with where he is, now. It’s a better home than most get. 

He does chores around your house, brings you things when you need them, and keeps you company while you work and when you’re alone. It’s a cushy life, all things considered. Satan is grateful that he has it so easy.

And he’s careful. When he’s near you, he’s always, always careful. He’s taller than you by about as much as one would expect from a demon, and even bred-down as he knows his species is, he knows he’s much, much stronger. You touch him fairly often, and Satan doesn’t yet know what to do with that. He’s new in your home, only there for a couple of months, and he hasn’t yet adjusted to the way that you do things. It’s only natural. All humans have rules, and he’s to follow the ones that his owner lays out. 

What winds up happening is that Satan never really calms down. He wasn’t expecting otherwise. After a lifetime of anticipating every wrong move he could make, he doesn’t know how to relax. Even though you seem safe, the trained parts of him keep waiting until he does something bad enough for it to be considered a mistake worth your time to punish. 

The reality of the situation comes when he’s doing dishes; standing upright because that’s what’s expected of him, even if it sets every nerve on edge. Making himself taller than a person doesn’t feel right. Satan is attentively scrubbing a stubborn plate when he feels a touch to his horns. 

The brush of fingers against a sensitive place makes him jolt. The plate crashes to the floor. He spins, strikes out without thinking, and—

Too late, he realizes what he’s just done. 

You let out a sharp, pained sound and stagger backward. The smell of blood hits the air. You clutch your arm where dual swipes of claw-marks cut through the flesh. Drops of blood dribble from the wounds. The plate is in shards on the floor around both of you, and Satan’s heart  _ stops.  _

He hurt you. All you did was touch him, and he hurt you. Cold terror settles in the pit of his stomach and freezes everything in its path on the way up. Even when he was younger, the most his ‘aggression issues’ ever amounted to was growling at handlers and breaking the occasional object. He’s never,  _ never  _ hurt someone before, and that’s— this is  _ bad  _ in a way that Satan barely can process. You’re still staring at him with frightened eyes. 

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, Satan drops to the floor where he belongs, ignoring how the shards there cut into him. Being taller than you was only serving to make him more intimidating. This is the last thing he needs when he’s already done so much damage. Satan’s vision spins and blurs. How are you going to react, and how much will it hurt?

“I-I apologize—” he chokes out when it takes a bit too long for you to speak. When the silence was killing him with its length. “It, i-it was an— an ac-accident, owner. I was st-startled, and, and I apologize.” 

It’s a struggle to keep his composure, and Satan knows he’s failing. His words are stuttered and tripped over. He has to look pathetic. 

You step forward. His body tenses, bracing for a strike. With your strength, it won’t hurt too badly, but there are lots of things in a kitchen that you could use if you wanted to. But instead of reaching for anything sharp or heavy, when you’re standing in front of him, you just reach out and pat his head with the hand of your uninjured arm. No hitting, no pain. 

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have done that so suddenly. I’m not mad at you. I’ll go get this cleaned up, so take care of the plate, if you would? I’ll be back to look at the cuts you have in just a minute.” Your voice carries no anger. 

Satan swallows and  _ stares.  _ This isn’t right. He did something very, very wrong. You should be shouting at him, punishing him,  _ something.  _ It doesn’t make sense that you’d apologize for your own ‘mistake’ and simply tell him to clean up his mess. There’s no way he can get off that easily. With a tremble settling into his hands, Satan nods. He’ll wait a few minutes. Once you’ve taken care of the cuts he gave you, you’ll be back. The bad part will come then. It makes sense if he thinks of it that way. He’ll just have to wait and anticipate what kind of punishment you’ll inflict on him then. 

“Yes, owner,” he nods, then reaches for the shards. 

He’s shaking. After all this time of fighting to keep his temper in check when you’re near, he hurts you by pure accident. It’s sick, sick irony. 

“No!” you say when he tries to pick up the broken shards with his bare hands. Satan freezes. “Don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Ironic words, considering that you’re the one dripping blood onto the floor. He’s a demon. Demons heal. Whatever cuts he gets will seal up much faster than— than what he did to you. There’s no reason for your concern. 

“I-It’s fine, owner,” he insists. “They need to be picked up.” 

At this point, it’s desperation. You haven’t hit him yet and his whole body is tense in anticipation of punishment. If he does something  _ good  _ and cleans up his mess, maybe you’ll go easier on him. Maybe you won’t be upset. Making up for his error is the only thing he can now, and—

“I don’t want you to be hurt,” you say in that same calm, even voice that you use whenever you’re trying to comfort him. It makes Satan bristle. He’s the one in the wrong. He’s the one awaiting whatever pain the person in power, the one who owns him, decides to deal out. “Please, stop. I know you think I’m going to punish you, but I won’t. It was just an accident. Get up, please. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’ll clean that up together.”

What you say doesn’t make  _ sense.  _ You’re lying, you have to be. He needs to be punished. Swiping at a human is unacceptable. The wounds on your arm— If they  _ scar—  _ By all rights, you could get rid of him for being aggressive and uncontrolled enough to do that. Heart pounding in his chest, Satan heaves a sharp, shaky breath. This is wrong. You need to punish him, he needs to remember his place like a good fucking  _ pet  _ is supposed to. 

“Just get it over with!” he snaps, unable to hold it back. “You have to! Hurt me, already!” His temper is simmering, boiling over uncontrolled. 

“I said no. I... I don’t see any reason to punish you.”

You sound  _ scared,  _ which leaves Satan ready to leave matching gashes on himself. He’s doing everything wrong. He’s hurt you, he’s scaring you, and you’re still either lying through your teeth or refusing to do what needs to be done. He needs to be fucking beaten until it sinks in that he’s  _ bad.  _ Just like everyone said when he was small, he’s a danger to be owned. Controlling himself never happened. He’s been a disaster waiting to happen this whole time, and he can’t stand the wait for what’ll be done in return. 

“That isn’t right! I hurt you—! You have to punish me. I can’t— I-It isn’t—!” He’s shouting by now, hauling himself to his feet without thinking. Again, without considering what he’s doing, Satan grabs your shirt. He’s seeing red, and his head is spinning. He’s either going to explode or burst into tears, and he doesn’t know which. Everything is  _ too much.  _

“S-Satan, let go of me,” you squeak. He doesn’t even register it. If he keeps going, you’ll punish him for sure. He’ll get what he deserves and— and everything can be  _ safe  _ again. There will be no more anticipation. 

More words fall from his lips. More rambling. More desperate demands for you to do something to make him regret daring to step out of his place. Satan can smell the terror seeping off of you, but all it does is spur on whatever demon instincts he has left. All he can think of is getting what he deserves and what it’ll feel like when your hands finally bring pain. 

He’s been waiting all this time for the kindness to come crashing down. There’s no way it could ever last. You’ve treated him so well, but that’s not how it works for demons. You have to do what all humans do at some point. You have to add to the scars he bears from being a stupid, belligerent  _ danger  _ of a demon back before he could make himself stop. But isn’t that what he’s doing now? He’s just returning to his nature. There’s never been anything else. Wrath filled him from the very start. 

“Please, let go!”

And then, your voice, high and  _ scared,  _ snaps him out of his daze of fury. Satan realizes that he’s towering above you, backing you into a wall. His fist is in your shirt and his tail is lashing furiously behind him. 

Everything comes crashing down. Terror hits him like a boot to the ribcage. Satan staggers backward, barely able to breathe. 

_ What has he done? _

You’re still bleeding. Who knows how deep the gashes are. He’s hurt you, he’s scared you, and you could have him fucking  _ killed  _ for this lapse of control. Satan drops to his knees once again, this time curling into himself until he’s a little ball of fear and regret. He’s never lost himself like that. 

But the next thing he knows, you’re dropping to the ground beside him. Your warm hand is on his back, rubbing slow, gentle circles even though he can still smell your blood much too clearly. You have to be hurting. Human pain tolerance is slim, but you’re still trying to comfort him before taking care of yourself. A sob tears through him. This isn’t right. You murmur gentle nonsense to him as if you’re speaking to a frightened animal, which— you might as well be. Satan’s chest goes so, so tight. 

“It’s okay. I’m not upset. You’re scared, and I understand that. I’m not acting like what you’re used to, huh? It’ll be okay.” Your gentle touch wanders up to the nape of his neck, and Satan  _ hurts  _ like nothing else. 

Somehow, forgiveness is worse. If you beat him, he could at least justify it. You’d be no different than any other human and he’d be punished for his wrongs. But like this, there’s nothing e can do but feel every bit of it. He can only sink into the knowledge that he hurt someone who’s only ever been kind to him. This is a consequence worse than any pain. 

Satan tries to breathe but can’t find the air. How he’s ever going to forgive himself, he doesn’t know. You seem to have already done it. 


End file.
